


Call Me Back Home

by BenLMoore, Tanyk (BenLMoore)



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: (Movie), Angst, Artistic Liberties, Begins where the movie ends, Canon Continuation, Daddy/son dynamics, Elio in America, Flashbacks, HEA, Hitchhiking, Jewish Wedding, M/M, POV First Person, Plot Twist, Plotty, Slow Burn, arguably internalized anti-semitism, canon-divergent, contentious topics in the coda, eventually, unconventionally, wedding crasher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 74,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/Tanyk
Summary: Spring of 1984, Elio comes to America to crash Oliver's wedding. It's a long way back home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up where the movie drops us.  
Written in the first person, like the book.  
Reading James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room, as I edit this and owing much to the sparkling simplicity of his language.

I gave Oliver the last word.

He chose, “Goodbye.”

Not ‘Later.’ Not ‘I love you.’ 

We’d never said those words, but I poured them into every kiss, into the worship of his immaculate mind and body. Oliver knew how I felt about him. And now I knew that he'd be getting married in the spring.

I crouched in front of the fire and cried until my mother called me to dinner. My face was inflamed from the heat and the waterworks, but I was also bursting with a revelation: this travesty could only take place with an ocean between Oliver and me. He couldn’t marry someone else if I was there.

My parents ate without a word. Their utensils clicked against their plates, arrhythmic against the Mendelssohn concerto swelling from my father’s phonograph.

The candles flickered in the menorah. A bowl of figs and oranges in the centerpiece. The hearty aroma of Mafalda’s latest culinary masterpiece: Anchise’s fresh-caught bream in a butter sauce with garlic from the garden. My parents' companionable silence. How could I. leave all that warmth without knowing what would await me?

A fair few of my half-cocked plans had come to nothing. Better to tell them when I was sure. 

“I’m going to America.”

The moment I made the announcement, I knew, that's where my home was. Where my heart was. My parents exchanged the same look as the previous year when I announced my intention to buy a horse: warm amusement with a touch of pity.

“Eat,” my mother said.

If I’d expected my father’s encouragement or support, it was not forthcoming. 

“Perhaps you should ask Oliver’s opinion.”

“May I be excused?”

“Of course, son.”

Their help would have been welcome but it wasn’t necessary. 

There was Hannukah money to save. I stopped smoking. I gave guitar lessons. Hoarded my birthday cash. When that wasn’t enough, I sold my bike and half my books and bought a ticket across the Atlantic. 

“Come, Elio,” my father said, on the last day. “You’re too smart for this.” 

I’d always thought him so wise. The trouble with parents is they only know what they know. 

*** 

It wasn’t my first time on a plane. We’d visited my father's brother Carl in Connecticut when I was nine. Even as a child, I wondered how it was possible to move hundreds of miles per hour with the sensation of sitting still.

That was precisely what I couldn’t do: sit still. 

I wasn’t even sure I wanted to survive the flight. Let it crash into the sea and the last thing they say be that my love never surrendered. My parents' faces would be no more drawn and distraught than when I left. They’d both refused to drive me to the airport, so I took a cab. Maybe, the same cab that brought Oliver that day.

For all my fantasies of dying in the ocean, the flight was perfectly smooth. The only turbulence was from the butterfly war raging in my belly.

I’d never seen anyone throw up in a plane, but got the honor of being that guy. Scrambling for the paper bag. Letting plastic chicken and soft fettuccine dribble and float in sour bowel juices. I could either blame nerves or the half bottle of my father’s Cynar 50 I’d polished off the night before. In any case, I made it an interesting flight for everyone. The air hostess smiled like a robot as she accepted my bag of sick.

A little old lady tapped the back of my seat to offer gum and a leathery smile.

_“Grazie, signora.”_

I cracked the stale, stiff stick between my teeth. There was no way to know whether I’d encounter any kindness where I was going.

It was an open-ended ticket. I could always touch down in New York and turn around. Waste the money. Save face.

What if Oliver yelled? Or wouldn’t even let me into the temple?

***

I needed only present my invitation, and the ushers directed me to the synagogue’s eighth row.

Oliver and his dowdy bride stood before the ancient, crumpled rabbi as seven men and women stood around them reciting Hebrew. According to the program, they would share the seven blessings. A Sheva Brachot.

I wore my star while Oliver was there. It drew me nearer to him. Made us feel alike, but I’ve never been a proper Jew. I had a bar mitzvah, of sorts. My father threw a party when I was 13. My mother called it a devenir majeur- coming of age. The nearest temple to the town where I grew up was 230 miles away. Needless to say, I don't understand Hebrew.

So, I translated their speeches for myself. 

_“Barukh _atah_ Adonai Eloheinu _melekh_ ha‑olam…_

Please Fasten your safety belt

_“Barukh _atah_ Adonai Eloheinu _melekh_ ha‑olam…”_

Make sure your tray tables are properly stowed

_“Barukh _atah_ Adonai Eloheinu _melekh_ ha‑olam…”_

In the unlikely event of a crash, your seat cushion is a flotation device. 

_Barukh _atah_ Adonai Eloheinu _melekh_ ha‑olam…_

I wanted to raise my hand and ask, what becomes of safety and vows if the whole thing goes down?

Oliver crushed the glass and held his wife’s hand high, bouncing down the aisle with the same grin he’d worn for me in Rome. All around, strangers laughed and applauded in the muted slow-motion of an underwater wedding scene in a weird movie or a bad dream.

My body shook like a broken machine, rattling its own insides to shards. This should have been the part when I fled back home and shriveled into a flower by the river where Oliver first kissed me.

But I stayed there. I didn’t even blink, and Oliver saw me. 

His blue eyes bulged wide with shock. For a fraction of a second, his ivory smile faltered and revealed horrified awe. It righted itself at once, for the crowd. For his family. For Mrs. Oliver.

For show.

The very first day we met him, everyone said he belonged in Hollywood. 

***

They were married. It was done. I’d failed. I don’t know why I stayed except that I had nowhere else to go. I’d made no backup plan. Oliver was supposed to see me. Then, we’d run off together and…

The band consisted of three balding uncles on electric guitars and a man whose drumsticks should have been confiscated until he learned to count to four. The accordion player was decent, but they played an unforgivable amount of polka.

I, alone, sat out Hava Nagila.

Oliver sang, but he shouldn’t have. Billy Joel’s Just the Way You Are, with the accordion playing the saxophone riffs is a torture noone should have to endure. Oliver's singing is more awful than his dancing.

Crueler torture was his woman’s hand on her chest, head tilted in Mona Lisa adoration. I wished for more barf, but the thunder in my guts reminded that I hadn’t eaten since the plane.

While Oliver warbled on, I forced down peas and beef I would have gladly stuffed into his mouth to silence it.

An hour later, he glided through the crowd with a bourbon and a cigar, like a lost member of the Rat Pack. He sidled up and curled his arm around me. He had the nerve to knead my ribs, those strong fingers the epicenter of a wicked heat that radiated through my bones. If I had asked, he would have stopped, and that would have been worse. I don’t know what I ever looked like beside him: a groupie, a disciple, an addict?

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he spoke loud enough for anyone to hear. “It’s fantastic.”

“Is it?” 

My righteous indignation fell flat when Oliver bared his blinding-white teeth. “Of course.” 

“You sure you don’t mind?” I shot back the question he’d posed over the phone. 

Which part should I mind?

That he never claimed to love me? If it ever crossed his mind to say it, he didn’t. And I never found the courage to cast out my voice, possibly without an echo. Solitary and stupid. 

Should I mind that he’d left me dangling on his wonderful news like a noose? That he was going on as if I never existed and that none of what happened in Italy was real?

“No,” Oliver said and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m glad you made it. It’s great to see you.”

Old buddy old pal.

Fucking movie star. Fucking Robert Redford with his yarmulke and unconcealed star of David.

A pat on the back and he wandered off to greet his other guests. To give them the same smile and spiel.

I’d come. I’d seen. I would not conquer. I was in America, and Oliver was dancing away. 

Fisting the air. Punching the sky. With his ridiculous, committed two-step. Painful to watch. Impossible to look away from six and a half feet of pure abandon.

Beside me, a snowy-haired woman cradled a fussy infant. Another sad boy with inky curls like mine. The only difference between us: a baby was allowed to cry out loud in public. He was too young and the crone too old to take part in Oliver’s spasmodic revelry. If those two represented Time, I symbolized man’s folly or some dumb shit like that.

It was time to leave, but morbidity and self-loathing melded me to my seat. I was the only one who didn’t raise my glass to the best man’s toast, but over the next hour, I emptied five drinks down my gullet. Where desperation had once twisted my bowels, new ideas began to ferment.

Knocking over the cake would have been appropriately dramatic, if over the top. I could already see Bride of Oliver’s face wide with cartoonish horror. Unfortunately, my parents raised me too well. My muscles wouldn’t move.

I was no cake smasher. No scene maker.

I was a musician. A poet. I would break him with words.

The bride’s cousin was the last tipsy imbecile to tap and blow into the microphone until the speakers let loose a painful howl. Another stupid speech about their childhood and who would have believed…

How is anyone surprised when someone gets hitched? Most peons live and breathe for holy matrimony. If Bar Mitzvah makes us men, the wedding ceremony marks the beginning of our decline. An official resignation from life. A renunciation of meaning and spontaneity. Vitality traded for safety

I was ready to deliver one hell of a fucking good speech when some plump girl roosted next to me and asked what side of the family I was from. I drank to excuse my silence and waited for her to go away.

Get up. Do it, coward. Don’t call him out. Just break every heart in the room, drop the mic and scram. Don’t look back or you’ll turn to salt.

I’d crossed the ocean for this moment and I was wasting it. The drummer started breaking down the mic. Drunk as I was, my nerves still thrummed as I staggered over and tugged his shirt. He moved aside. I tapped like the rest of the idiots. Cleared my throat.

In a Jewish wedding, the rabbi doesn’t say ‘speak now or hold your peace’. This was my only chance to declare this union a farce.

But I made the mistake of searching out the bride’s cow-brown eyes, thinking I could revel in her humiliation. I squinted, scrutinizing her parrot-painted clownish features. For God’s sake. Who’s hideous when they smile? And what man marries such a sin-ugly woman except for love? There were a lot of beauties in the room, but Mrs. Oliver was not one of them. It was as if she’d agreed to be twice as overtly Jewish to compensate for her groom’s WASPy appearance.

This whole thing was a joke. The punchline was Oliver’s blank expression in which I read the reality: I’d been the summer fling.

I was the farce, and this Gorgon was his future.

So, on behalf of the Perlmans, by way of Stamford, by way of Lyon, by way of Avezzano, I introduced myself and wished them all the happiness true love can bring.

***

The peas tasted as bad coming up as they had going down. A bit tangier, maybe. The artificial minty scent of urinal cakes blended with hours’ worth of drunk men’s wayward urine. The celebration was winding down. I was going to have to figure out where to go.

When I’d flushed my puke and piss down to the crabs, I righted my zipper and staggered to the sink. Oliver was like a storm. I sensed his presence before I caught his reflection in the mirror.

I’d grown a couple of inches, but Oliver was no smaller towering over me, his warm chest pressed to my back.

“You shouldn’t drink so much.”

He wiped my brow with one palm and clasped onto my hip with the other. 

“Your hair’s longer.” 

One sleepless night in Rome, Oliver had whispered how he longed for dark curls as a child. He’d twirled his fingers in mine and entered me slow and sure as a snowbound train.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured against my neck. “You know that, don’t you?”

I had the invitation that said otherwise. The smooth, grey vellum with his name and hers, the date and location. But he was right. I shouldn’t have come. I didn't belong in America, and I shouldn’t have been standing in a temple with my fly open and his huge, hot hand down my pants.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Oliver repeated, even as his thumb played over my slit. 

I dropped my head back onto his shoulder and prayed someone would capture this moment and make it real. So much had passed between us in the dark and in secret. That’s why I was so easy to forget. I gripped his sleeve and whimpered a plea.

“You don’t belong in this world,” he sighed. “You belong to the world before inspiration. To the dreams of the sculptor. To the dawn before the seed becomes Helianthus.”

I was from the world where teenage boys come apart in their adult lover’s hand. The world of weak knees, flushed cheeks, and slate-blue eyes peering back in reflection. Low voices telling me I was a muse, but not a song. 

“Go home, Oliver,” he whispered and licked his fingers as if they were covered in peach nectar.


	2. Chapter 2

_“God only knows. God makes his plans. The information’s unavailable to the mortal man.” - Paul Simon_

I stared out of the train window, counting trees. I stopped at the number of hours until Oliver returned from his honeymoon: 336. 

I’d intended to count the minutes, but discipline failed me. The next two weeks couldn’t pass quickly enough. All I wanted was to see Oliver once more and ask him point-blank. It’s hard to remember your script with someone’s hands down your pants.

Since I didn’t have money for a hotel, my father’s brother Carl paid for my ticket from Boston to Stamford. The train rattled uneasily over its tracks. I rolled my stiff neck until it cracked. Shifted position in the unforgiving seats, moving toward comfort without ever truly achieving it.

Stale remnants of nicotine smoke from the passenger beside me. I leaned fractionally closer. Had forgotten how fiercely I’d missed smoking. 

I arrived on a Sunday afternoon sporting my best suit and a screaming hangover.

Aunt Tia grinned. Behind her, Uncle Carl stood wide-legged and scowling with his arms folded. On either side of him, a teenaged girl snickered. The twins’ hair defied gravity and logic, apparently inspired by the dorsal fin of some exotic fish. These were the Connecticut Perlmans I’d heard so little about. 

“Welcome to America,” Aunt Tia chirped and suggested we celebrate my arrival at a buffet-style restaurant.

I was nauseous, in pain and squinting against the sunlight. I would have rather crawled into the nearest cave and died.

But I made my way through the human safari of overfed behemoths, heaped greasy food-like items onto my plate, and barely finished half of it. 

During the over-sweet dessert, I casually asked my uncle if he knew of Oliver or his family. The way he laughed locked my jaw. Would my father tell this stranger my private business? Had he said something that revealed my fruitless chase? I clutched my fork, waiting for whatever rude names Carl would call me.

“This isn’t central Italy, boy.” He tittered. “All the Jews on the eastern seaboard don’t know each other.”

Carl’s house resembled a huge box made of saltine crackers, identical to all the other neatly placed boxes on the street. The interior revealed the same void of creativity. Every item in my parents’ home, from the furniture to the wallpaper, wove a tale, preserved a history. Uncle Carl’s house was a catalogue of Chinese-made, culture-less crap. It stank like the scorched grinds at the bottom of an electric coffeemaker. 

A polite guest never arrives empty-handed. Since I was too young and broke to bring wine, I choked out the word, “Nice.”

Aunt Tia was showing me the guest room when Carl called me to the phone. It hadn’t rung. He’d reported me. 

The connection crackled but remained clear enough to hear my father ask, “Are you ready to come home?”

“Dad, I’m dying right now. The train. The food…” I said, saying nothing. “Can we talk later?”

“Sure,” he said. “Call.”

The phone rang again that evening and Carl banged on the door like a demolition crew. I gritted my teeth, ignored him, and slept. 

I awoke the following morning with pounding behind my eyes accompanied by a lethargy as if my insides were molten lead, anchoring me to the mattress. 

What if Oliver didn’t want me at all? What if he really meant what he said, and the hand job was a parting gift? 

There was no way to know his mind until he returned. Nothing to do but wallow in the too-soft bed and contemplate ways to enter a 13-day coma. Masturbation was good, but after the first day of refusing to leave the bed, my wrist hurt and I was horribly chafed.

There were no books at Uncle Carl’s, only magazines. Glossy, bright periodicals in each of the two bathrooms and under the coffee table. No musical instruments besides a 33-key Casio keyboard. 

But there was a television in every room. Back home, if I’d wanted to watch a soccer match, I had to ride my bike five miles into town.

While Uncle Carl worked at a patent office and my cousins went to school, Aunt Tia manned the tube. I came upon her one afternoon, humming along to a commercial. While her hands busily ironed and folded, her dark eyes remained affixed to the TV screen. 

I quietly refilled my empty Slice can with a fresh dose of vodka from Uncle Carl’s stash, claimed a bag of Doritos from the pantry and settled in for a day of perfect numbness. 

We started with local news, moved on to soap operas and game shows. After-school, there were specials. We took dinner with prime-time dramas. My cousins went to bed and I stayed up to watch the late-night comedian/variety shows.

There was no postcard from Oliver’s honeymoon because he didn’t know where I was. Just like I had no idea where he lived. My father had his address, but I’d never requested it. 

I couldn’t even recall from which university he was receiving his PhD. At the end of our summer, we’d agreed not to write. Oliver said it would be easier that way, and I agreed to be agreeable.

Maybe he sent a postcard to Italy. Who knows?

It didn’t matter, as long as I was engrossed in the dizzying constellation of relationships on Days of Our Lives.

Aunt Tia and I were harmonizing along to a Jiffy Lube ad the next time my father called.

“Yes,” she spoke into the receiver. “Of course. He’s right here.”

“So.” His speech often became monosyllabic when he was taming rage or disappointment. “Is your mission accomplished yet, Elio?”

It was more accusation than question - as if I’d blown up the temple. Why would I be at Carl’s if my mission was accomplished?

“Are you happy?”

The connection was terrible. I caught every other word and a world of static in between. 

I’d attended the wedding and affected no change. So, no. I wasn’t happy. I was a miserable ass with one hope for redemption eight days out. 

“Son, you’ve done your worst.” My father’s voice had softened to a whisper. “Let it go and come home.”

He was trying to constrain me, the same way Oliver’s wife and his father were controlling him. It became utterly clear at that moment: I couldn’t return to Italy without him. Oliver was my home, or I had none. 

My father called every day. Or else, he enlisted my mother. They spoke gently, offering incentives and mild threats as if I was a child pitching a tantrum.

My father and I had once been dearest comrades. My tryst with Oliver had swung our orbit even closer, for a blink, and then destroyed the magnetism.

On my tenth day in America, Dad opened the daily interrogation with, “What are you going to do then?”

I had no idea. Spend my life chasing Oliver? Become his secret catamite?

“If you’re going to stay, at least go to college in fall.”

Only if I could go to Oliver’s university. 

“Then come home.”

I’d heard it so often, I hung up.

That evening, Carl presented me with an envelope and an ultimatum: “You leave, or you get a job. You’re not going to just bum around my house.”

Oliver would be home any day. There was no point in getting a job. I blinked at the plane ticket, at my idiot uncle, and said, “No.”

“Listen, if I have to, I’ll drag your skinny ass to the airport.”

“You can’t make me do anything.”

All at once, I was weightless. Carl lifted me over his head, ignorant of my kicking and yelling. Aunt Tia screamed for him to put me down. Carla laughed while Amy covered her mouth and shouted, “Daddy!”

My father’s brother lugged me out of the glass door onto the balcony. Then, he hurled me over the side into the muck, leaves and freezing water of their filthy pool. I sank like an anvil. 

Then resurfaced, sputtering, face stinging in the biting cold late-April air.

It was an inexcusable ambush. The most barbaric brute force I’ve ever been a victim to, but I owe the man a debt of gratitude. I packed my shit and left that night.

I gambled the last of my money on a ticket back to Boston.

***

It was a Monday. A drizzly dawn. I sat on the front steps of the temple gnawing my thumbnail. My hair dripped in my eyes, but as the rabbi hobbled to the door, I stood and offered my hand. The sweet aftertones of cigar smoke floated off his squelchy, sun-dried skin. 

“Sir, I’m… My name is Elio Perlman, I’m…I was… I’d like to…”

“Young Ollie’s European connection.”

Had Oliver told his rabbi about me? About us? A thousand pounds of dead weight rolled off my shoulders. The old man hacked a violent cough.

“There was some mention of you after the ceremony,” he said. “Far from home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He thinks highly of you.”

I didn’t realize how shallow my breath had been until that moment. I’d been treading eggshells since I landed, but if Oliver had confessed to his rabbi about me, my fear was needless. 

Of course, Jews don't confess in the same way as Catholics, but I didn’t consider that at the time. 

The old man leaned close, gripped my shoulder like he would divulge a cosmic truism he’d learned directly from Moses. “I’ll tell you something…”

He waited for me to repeat my name.

“Elio.”

“Elio. Really?” His rheumy eyes widened as he straightened his spine. “Well, I’ll tell you a little-known secret, Elio.”

I nodded and braced for wisdom.

“A married man differs from his single self in one important distinction.”

My brow raised.

“He’s no longer the same person,” the rabbi said and rasped a chuckle at his own inscrutable joke. 

He turned and entered the temple. The conversation was over, but what kind of oracle tells you nothing?

Despite his secretary’s protests, I followed the old man into his office, perched on the edge of the chair at his desk and begged, “Sir, if you would just give me an address or a phone number.” 

His gaze softened, sympathetic but unyielding. He cleared his throat and spat into a cotton kerchief. After a moment’s study, he stuffed the napkin back into his breast pocket and said, “Whatever you’re looking for, Eliot—“

“Elio.”

“It’s not Ollie,” he said. “It’s not even out there anywhere.”

I sighed, certain he’d tell me I was looking for God. Instead, he pointed a crooked claw at the center of his own chest.

It was useless. I slumped back in the chair.

The rabbi was right about one thing, I’d overstepped and was out of bounds. Not only was my father ashamed of me, but God was on his side. This wasn’t reason. It was a holy commandment from a righteous old man’s throat.

Yahweh didn't exist any more than Zeus. What I believed in was humanity’s need for answers. Our constant striving to be higher than our animal nature.

What had I come to do? Force Oliver to choose me? To make him leave his wife?

I never cared whether that made him happy or her miserable.

I wasn’t in love. I was a selfish piece of shit. Even if Oliver would have me, I didn’t deserve him. It was no wonder my parents were mortified.

My ticket home was still open. I didn't need Carl's charity or even my father’s mercy. But what was I going to tell him when I arrived? That I failed, or I gave up? That Oliver wanted me, only he didn’t? That I’d heard the voice of God? 

There was no going back - at least not right away. I had divine orders to leave Boston. Unfortunately, in His infinite wisdom, Jehovah neglected to tell me where to go next.

I stood on the interstate and lifted a thumb. The first car that stopped, I leaned in the window. The driver's dark, pleasant face was partially obscured behind stringy hair.

“Where are you heading, man?” 

An unfamiliar odor tickled my nose. I sneezed and turned the question back on him. “Where are you going?”

“Due west,” he said. “Detroit.”

I’d heard of it. 

Beggars don’t choose and I just needed to go. 

My heart thumped against my ribs as I climbed into the car. I had $13.74 in my pocket. That night, I smoked my first joint and discovered reggae music. I fell asleep in the backseat of a Saab wondering where Oliver was and whether he’d heard of Robert Nesta Marley. 


	3. Chapter 3

Another Paul Simon song that is absolute perfection. Don't ask. I'm not going to sing. My father has the record. I’ll play it for you in the morning.

The refrain goes:

_I’ve come_

_to look for America._

I’d come for Oliver. I found and lost him in a day. 

I rolled and rambled across the asphalt, learning America in a way I hadn’t from books, or my father’s history lessons. Factories puffed foul steam in Pittsburgh. Lake Erie yawned like an ocean. But my most vivid impression was collected at truck stops: hotdogs, vending machines, baseball caps.

Most drivers pick up hikers for a story or someone to talk to. There’s a rare breed that’s just helpful. Then, there’s the guy who taps your shoulder and says, “Hey, kid. Why don’t you suck on this for me?”

My cheek was spit-plastered to the passenger window. I’d been asleep, but I heard him and I didn’t have to look to see what he meant. 

No, I did not want to suck on it. I could smell his funk across the car: over 60 and his gut probably made his dick inaccessible.

Another reason to stay facing my window was diseases. Soon after Oliver left, one of my parents casually placed an article on my breakfast plate. Some mysterious monkey germ was killing gay men. Not in Italy yet, but in America. Now, that I think of it, maybe that was why they didn’t want me to leave. Funny how time alters perception.

More important to me at the time was the conviction that sex with people you don’t love was wrong. I learned that with Marzia. She forgave me, but I hadn’t.

And I was far from experienced. I’d kissed her and a few other girls. I’d had sex with her. I did everything I could think of with Oliver, but that was back home where I was safe.

The first time I held another man in my hands I was kneeling at the side of my own bed, like a child in prayer. His massive body cast a shadow in the moonlight so I could barely see his face. Instead, I listened for his quiet, rapid breath bursting between parted lips. His fingers twisted gently in my hair. 

“You don’t have to,” Oliver said as if there was any question.

His cock was like the rest of him: daunting. 

I bit my lip, ready to make a fool of myself. Marzia hadn’t done this, and there wasn’t much porn in my life that couldn't be found on a Grecian urn. My memory of what Oliver did to me was a jumble of electric pleasure and teeth in my forearm to keep from shouting.

I dove in and wound up choking myself. He laughed out loud because he was always laughing - that asshole. 

“Don’t try to take it all at once.” He cupped my chin and kissed me, still chuckling. “Just taste it first.”

His skin was smooth and warm on my tongue. I soaked in his soft moan. If I close my eyes, I can still taste him now.

Everything with Oliver was pure magic. Doug, in the stinky station wagon, was disgusting. Impersonal. Transactional. An exchange of favors.

I peeked over at what the guy was stroking. At least I wouldn’t be choking on that tiny thing. The principle was intimidating as if he’d asked me to push the car the rest of the way. 

“Listen, you little shit.” Doug bunched my shirt in his fist and shook. “I’ll put you out right here.”

If there had been a sliver of moonglow, I might have discerned where Right Here was. Perhaps if a thunderstorm hadn’t been pounding the roof of the car. Maybe if I was a better person, I could have said no. What I did was hold my breath and suck Doug Leonard’s short, smelly cock. As you can see, it didn’t kill me. 

Later, I developed my first itchy, crusty cold sore and a 20/20 retrospect that it would have been better to get drenched than to swallow that guy’s Herpes, but live and learn.

In a little over a week, I’d hitched my way to the other edge of America. By a series of unpredictable events, I wound up in San Francisco living with a painter. Although I never asked, Mela must have been in her early thirties. 

She found me wandering the fringes of a farmer’s market, eyeing the tomatoes. I’d eaten nothing fresh and living since I’d arrived in the country. The woman paid my soul’s price with a salad. In return, I “inspired” her. 

In Mela’s terms, to inspire meant to wake around 2:00 PM, lounge nude, and remain on-demand to screw or eat her pussy. She was neither hard on the eyes or nose. Daily sex wasn’t a bad trade for meals and board, except that she was crazy.

Uninstigated yelling, unexplained crying, plate-hurling mad. 

She’d get up from the bed with my cum sliding down her thigh, light up one of her hand-rolled clove cigarettes, and paint for six hours without pause.

It didn’t occur to me to ask whether Mela was on the pill until one day she came home from a ‘doctor’s appointment’ and slept the next 24 hours. I surmised, without asking, that I’d nearly missed becoming a father at 18. 

I’d already proclaimed at the ripe age of 6, because of the brats in my first-grade class, that I’d bring no more of those into the world. My parents smiled, incorrect in their assurance that I’d change my mind.

The mother of my dead child flopped on her ratty sofa wearing only an oversized gray sweatshirt that constantly slid off her shoulder. I silently served microwaved can soup and white tea. She sat one day of shiva. Then, it was back to work. It was my first abortion. Not hers. 

Our whirlwind lasted two months during which we attended over twenty parties. Smoked a lot. Drank even more. A lot of it, I don’t even remember, but one of those parties changed my life’s trajectory. 

While I would have been content as Mela’s fuckboy/portrait model indefinitely, God, Satan and Conner Riga had other plans. Their circle of friends was so incestuous, it was no scandal when I left Mela for Connor. And no one batted an eye when he introduced me as his boy.

“This is my boy, Elio.”

Not in an urban way. As in, Connor believed he owned me and I didn’t disagree. I was the property of a five-foot, orange-haired half-Swede who screwed like he was punishing me for potential wrongdoings. With Connor I learned that sex with guys is not always enjoyable. It was like he’d forget I was alive down there. 

He fucked with all of Oliver’s fierceness, and none of his finesse. 

My first time with Oliver, he spent an hour licking and massaging and plying his long, cautious fingers into me. Stroking and teasing until I begged. 

Then, he laughed and held me wide open, a cheek in each huge palm. “Is this my ass?”

I was already speechless and supple. The question stunned me stupid. Oliver spat a cool burst on my bull’s eye and jiggled his toy.

“Is this mine, baby? Is this Daddy’s tight little boy hole?”

Just like that, the trance was ruined. 

“Don’t call me that. Don't say any of that.”

He chuckled and peppered kisses along my rift.

“I’m serious,” I said and propped on my elbows. “I don’t like it.”

“All right.” Amusement was still thick on his voice. “But this is one beautiful, tight fucking hole.”

His fingers glided into me and I collapsed onto my face again, clutching the sheet. Oliver lifted my hips, raised my ass into the air and guided my hand to my cock. I’d never been so unbearably hard.

“I’m going to wreck you, Elio,” he said, climbing behind me. “You know that, don’t you? It’s not too late to—”

“Shut up and do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just fuck me.”

I was a cocky little bastard, right until Oliver sweetly sawed me in half, ass-first.

I thought of him every time Connor took me. Oliver had made the pain sing, and the pleasure scream. 

But I wasn’t with Oliver anymore. I was with a different American who made up for his lack of bedside manner with an unparalleled sense of his own grandeur. Just being with him made me worth something. 

One morning, Connor wandered in from his bathroom, dressed in a bright blue Tahitian pareo. He scratched his soft belly and watched me playing Tarrega on his busted out Martin guitar. 

I was cross-legged and naked on the table in his efficiency’s kitchenette. A Gauloises dangled from the corner of my lip. My ass was in tatters from the previous night’s battering. Still, I felt like a god with that melody beneath my fingertips and Connor’s eyes on my lips.

He commandeered my smoke and stood listening until I finished. Then, he informed me that I would score his movie: a project that was neither finished nor started. 

He wanted a blend of folksy Americana chords and rhythms with soaring classical undertones to support the story of a guy lost in the mountains. 

I was Connor’s boy. So, for the first time, I studied the American music my mother found so vulgar. Appalachian style was closely related to the Irish reels I’d learned in grade school. But the real gold was in so-called black music. African slaves and their descendants, in their suffering, had contributed such a rich pallet to the country’s voice that I could have spent a lifetime internalizing spirituals, gospel, blues, jazz and only scratched the surface. It was simpler than classical but no less thrilling.

I spent hours comparing Al Green’s and the Talking Heads recordings of Take Me to the River. Eventually, I could play Puff the Magic Dragon in the style of James Brown, or Sitting on the Dock of the Bay with banjo accompaniment.

To say that Connor hired me to score his film would be too generous, though. He compensated my efforts in drugs and fornication. But I was 18 and living rent-free under a genius’ leaky roof. Who was I to complain?

Two years later, that god-damned movie premiered at Sundance and Cannes, and won a fucking Golden Globe for Best Independent Film. That arrogant fuck became a millionaire and never offered me a dime. 

We weren’t on speaking terms by then. I’d moved in with garage-band brothers Pete and Stanley Kraus. It was an entirely platonic arrangement, which meant for the first time, I had to pay my way. I was working as a busboy/toll booth operator/bike courier when I got a call from a real director offering real money to score another indie film.

In the Garden of Bacchus was basically porn, but the director believed that the right soundtrack would elevate it. The critics disagreed, but everybody loved the music.

The rest is cinematic history.

I was born to the work: listening to the moment and finding its music. Five. Ten. Fifteen years of scoring films, PBS specials, composing music for a couple of Broadway shows. I even wrote the occasional jingle. I was no John Williams, but I’d made my name and more money than I could spend. 

I had the house, the parties, the clothes, the cars. My dating life consisted of pretty faces for premieres. Occasionally, if I got bored, I took a girl to dinner. More often, I purchased thick biceps, bright blue eyes, and moose cocks for a night. It was like eating olives with every meal - a taste I’d acquired in my Italian boyhood. 

It was never the same as with Oliver. Rent boys were better. I was happy when they came and gladder to see them go.

Exactly one month after my 33rdbirthday, I signed on to a period drama with a heavy focus on first-century Greco-Roman art and Mediterranean trade - the subject of Oliver’s second book. In a meeting with the director, she casually mentioned needing to consult a new historian. It was the goddam voice of God humming in a hornet’s nest of chest-tightening emotion I refused to poke. 

Mine was an uncomplicated life that included occasional fun with my Oliver knock-offs. I had no residual interest in the real thing. Who wanted the real Oliver when I could pay for replica who couldn’t hurt me if he tried? I’d successfully purged that need from my system.

Besides, I’d changed. Filled out. Grown hairy. I wasn’t anybody’s boy anymore. I never knew what Oliver saw in me. If it was youth, that was gone. 

But, this film was an excuse. Over the years, I’d often thought about calling him, for a laugh. To show how great I’d done, and how well time heals. Mostly, it does. Oliver’s name was a scab with soft, pink, healthy skin beneath it. 

A lifetime had passed. There was no reason not to call. 


	4. Chapter 4

I took a long drag and let it out even slower. Pressed my back to the stainless steel wall at LAX. Streams of zombie travelers flowed by, ignorant to the unease in my bowels. I hadn’t slept well or eaten much and I would have rather been in bed than a crowded airport.

I’d considered sending a limo, getting the driver to stand there with one of those schmucky signs:

Oliver H.

Even I knew that’s a douche-move toward a friend, or whatever Oliver was.

So, I stood outside gate C4, huffing cigarettes like a steam engine, catching snatches of strangers’ conversations, while cursing the gods of air travel for the three-hour delay.

Three hours to replay the phone conversation with my mother. Generally, I placed the obligatory Passover and Hannukah calls. Sent birthday cards with a few hundred Lira, (exchanged at the bank and sent in an envelope - a practice my father always warned against).

Over the years, I thought of calling more often or even surprising them with a visit. Each day dragged me farther from Italy, farther from the kid I was before Oliver. Odd as it sounds, our summer was the most momentous shift in my life. I always thought of myself in terms of before Oliver, and after.

Elio After Oliver sat on his Malibu balcony swirling a tumbler of Cabernet Franc. I was already emboldened by half the bottle when I dialed.

“Buon giorno.”

My mother answered. I hadn’t the slightest inkling about her daily life, but it was a safe assumption that not much had changed. We’d lived a fossilized existence that sucked its energy from the students’ summer visits.

“Hi, Maman.”

She remained silent for a moment before asking, _“Ça va? Qu’est ce qui se passe?”_

“Nothing happened. I’m fine, Maman. I’m just calling.”

She waited.

“How’s Dad?”

“He’s right here. You want to—”

“No, I need Oliver’s number.” I hadn’t meant to be so brusque, but it was out.

My mother replied with more silence, so I tried a joke. “We’ll see if he even remembers who I am.”

The humor fell flat on both sides.

“Look, I’m not… I don’t want to interfere with his life or anything.” I was in my thirties, explaining myself to people who didn’t know me anymore. “I’m doing a film. They’re looking for a historian. I figured… in case he has time.”

My mother hummed thoughtfully. “Well, he’ll be grateful for the work.”

As always, she asked about my health and how I was eating.

But I was stuck on the implications of Oliver grateful for the work. I’d expected him to be tenured at some Ivy League university celebrating his latest publication. Was I to understand that the brilliant Ph.D was now unemployed and destitute? I felt a momentary swell of sweet vindication, as if his hardships were karma at work.

Only, I don’t believe in karma, and quickly subdued that errant thought.

I could have asked my mother to clarify, but the call had already lasted an excruciating two minutes. I’d find out soon enough.

“Merci, Maman. Talk later, all right?”

I hung up before she could ask when that would be.

For the following two days, I’d occasionally glance at the numbers scribbled on my notepad. I hadn’t written his name. Just the ten digits without parentheses or dash.

The world is full of historians. It didn’t have to be that one. I owed Oliver nothing.  
Ultimately, I flipped a coin against myself and lost. I choked an unopened bottle of scotch by the neck and wisely called sober, at a reasonable hour of day. 3:15PM, Pacific Time. 6:15 in Boston.

“Heisenbergs?”

My pulse spasmed at the strange intimacy of Oliver’s wife’s voice in my ear, asking the name, as if she was unsure.

“Uh, hello.” I cleared my throat. “May I speak with Oliver, please?”

“Ollie?”

I’d never called him that. I’d thought about it, and waited for an invitation that never came. Instead, he asked me to call him by my name.

“Hello?”

His voice still held that warm, low frequency that perked my skin awake.

“Oliver.”

“Hey!” He brightened, smile audible.

I closed my eyes to see it. “Hey.”

“So, who’s Hollywood now?”

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “About that —”

“Your mom called. I tried to reach you yesterday,” he said. “Tell me about this film.”

Easy as that. Oliver agreed to fly out and meet the director. Without inquiring about his financial situation, I offered to pay his way and put him up. His grateful acceptance told me all I needed to know.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah. Later.”

He chuckled. We hung up. I drank.  
I didn’t get sloppy. But the moment warranted reflection and alcohol.

I bought him the best flight available: direct from LaGuardia to LAX. Booked three nights at the Ritz-Carlton, with the option to extend. If my mother had known, she would have called me a heathen. I lived in a house with ten rooms and I put Oliver in a hotel.

Then again, my parents had been calling me a heathen for years. With all my money and the flexibility of my work, I hadn’t been back to Italy since I left. The villa wasn’t home anymore. My own house wasn’t home. Music was my home. It was the place I knew, understood and loved above all else. Otherwise, I was floating through the world unanchored.

Still, I wasn’t letting Oliver into my house. That was a firm, unrelenting No. This visit was business. No strings. No pleasure.

That man had lived in my room for a summer, fucked me in my bed, left the scent of his cum and sweat in my mattress fibers for me to wallow in. I’d never even seen how he lived. Did he keep his room clean? Was he a good cook? Did he sing in the shower? I’d wondered everything when I was a kid, but no longer wanted to know.

Oliver was not welcome to leave behind new memories. I didn’t even want a mental snapshot of him drinking orange juice at my kitchen table. Thanks, no thanks.

On the lighter side, fifteen years had passed. Oliver couldn’t be the god he’d once been. Time had changed me. It must have diminished him, too. I’d erected a shrine in my mind, inviting all those young look-alikes to fuck and be fucked. The real thing must’ve been a phantom of his former self. The shadow of a monument.

He’d spent the last fifteen years strapped to a desk and chair, writing. A once exquisite masterpiece, lost underwater for centuries. Now encrusted with barnacles, dull scum, and a greenish patina. I might not even recognize him anymore than he’d identify me with my hair to my shoulders, the goatee, the five-hundred-dollar Ray-Bans.

A female voice made a garbled announcement over the PA. I stamped out my cigarette in the sand on top of the nearest trashcan. Minutes later, bedraggled travelers filed from the gate.

No difficulty spotting Oliver: towering above everyone, broad shoulders, that face. Smiling, as he waved. Even at several yards' distance, he was no longer the bronzed deity I’d worshipped. His hair was darker and streaked white, with light patches at the temples. There was a pale waxiness to his skin.

The cheap, grey plastic glasses framed but did little to hide the creases around his eyes. With all Time’s cruelty, he was still fucking gorgeous. The man had aged like a Chateauneuf du Pape into a hot professor whose students must crawl out of their skin.

I’d never been to college. Suddenly, that fact and all my many other shortcomings seemed emblazoned on my sweaty forehead. I’d lived a frivolous life so far. He’d read that truth on me like an in-flight magazine.

A quiet surge of unwanted heat rolled through my body as Oliver spread his arms to embrace me. I lifted his carry-on bag and flashed a strained smile. Undeterred, he clapped my shoulder, still smiling to outshine the sun. “You look good.”

“How was the flight?”

“Yeah. It was great, Elio. Thanks again.”

“Not at all.”

I led the way to the parking garage. Was there something else I should ask or say?

“Actually, it was shit,” Oliver admitted and chuckled to himself. “Hate flying.”

He struck an appropriately impressed face for my car. “What is this?”

I shrugged like it was nothing. "Ferrari F60 America.”

“Wow.” He slid a finger along the freshly-waxed pearl-grey finish.

Then he adjusted the seat and performed a contortionist’s routine to fold in his legs - knees to nipples.

“Sorry, I…” was only thinking of which car made the loudest impression.

I reached for the glove compartment and, at once, retracted my hand. There was no way to open it without touching Oliver’s knee. He hoisted up and granted access so I could present the white box. Inside, he found a cellphone I’d bought and programmed for the occasion.

“What’s this?”

“I assumed you didn’t have one,” I said, keeping my eyes squarely on the road. “You’ll need it. Can’t be in LA without a way to communicate.”

“Thanks.”

While Oliver checked out the phone, I told myself it was perfectly natural to be aware of his body, as large as he was. I’d been with a fair few big boys, but somehow Oliver commanded more than space. He filled the gaps between imagination and lust with potential energy.  
I glanced at the long, khaki-clad thigh and absently touched my mouth.

Breathed evenly despite the thick, familiar scent filling the car. I rolled down the windows, forced myself to focus on the traffic.

When ignoring him failed and felt childish, I broke the fire and ice with small talk.

“Tired?”

Very small talk.

Oliver sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back. I spent all my effort not looking at him.

Twenty minutes later, I’d survived and arrived under the hotel awning. The valet jogged around to my door, eyes glinting at the chance to drive my baby an eighth of a mile to the garage.

“No, thanks. I’m just dropping him off.” I turned to Oliver. “Your reservation’s under my name. Have whatever you like.”

“You’re not going to—” his eyes narrowed. Then he blazed one of his dangerous grins. “Come on, Elio. This place must have a bar.”

“I don’t think so. Your meeting’s pretty early tomorrow. I’m sure you need to sleep.”

“One drink,” Oliver raised a one-finger oath. “You got to tell me what to expect.”

That was a valid point. Lalaland is a lion’s den. I’d lured him in. The least I could do was warn when and how they might bite.

We settled in at the bar, a few respectable, professional inches between our elbows. I summarized what to expect during the initial meeting. Oliver watched my lips. Around us, glasses clinked. Tourists murmured. A live pianist created a soundtrack of cheesy lounge music. I glanced over, thought of scooting him aside and playing some boogie-woogie. When I turned around, Oliver was smirking at me.

“What?”

He shook his head and grinned. “Nothing.”

I drowned my smile in the contents of my shot glass and let Oliver wax poetic over Italy in ’83. He didn’t ask about my work. I didn’t inquire about his family. He knew better than I did how my parents were faring. I’d seen his parents at the wedding but Oliver didn’t introduce us.

Eventually, he placed his beer bottle on the bar with a hollow clunk. His hand was firm on my shoulder, in precisely the same place he’d first touched me. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. There was nothing random about that thrilling/numbing pressure, paralyzing like a kitten dangling by the neckflesh from its mother’s mouth.

“We should go upstairs.”

That was my cue to leave.

Oliver grinned. “Unless you want me to pass out here.”

“We can catch up tomorrow.” I shrugged away from his hand.

“Or you could come upstairs.” He raised a finger to the bartender and requested a bottle of his finest Ouzo. “Bill it to my room,” which meant bill it to me.

Oliver tucked his bottle of poison under his arm and left without looking back.

I swiveled on my stool and leveled a disparaging glare at the pianist. He had talent, but had committed to safe, predictable jazz standards. I sat there suffering the mediocrity for another five minutes before I marched through the lobby doors.

My cigarette blazed orange in the brisk, night air.

Oliver never used to be so eager. Who knows how often these married guys fuck? He probably hadn’t been laid in months. I could screw him as a public service. Provide a mouth, a dick and a tight hole. Offer relief to a friend in need. As long as we were clear that it was just a fling. That’s what went wrong the first time: adolescent emotion and fairy tale expectation. If I kept that nonsense out of the equation, it could be a great night.

I flicked off my smoke.

He’d left the key/card in the door. I crept into the receiving room with its hushed cream tones: a semi-circle sofa, round coffee table, wide windows with a great view the city lights. Well worth the money. Cool, artificially scented air washed softly through the vents. Crystal glasses at the bar, but no sign of Oliver.

I finally found him at the foot of a velvet-covered, California king-sized canopy bed. It was a room fit for royalty, with the monarch seated on the floor. He grinned as I entered.

“I knew it,” he said.

I snatched the bottle from his hand and took a long swig. “Shut up.”

“Come, sit.” Oliver patted the carpet.

A pair of finely upholstered antique chairs rested at the bay window. I had options. I glanced back at the door and took a deep breath before I eased down beside him.

“See,” Oliver seized the bottle. “Nearly 40, and still irresistible.”

“Bite me.”

He chuckled and nibbled my shoulder. Even through the layers of fabric, a wide warmth flared and rooted in my crotch. I rolled back my shoulders, as if I could shake off the heat. Changing the subject away from Oliver’s mouth on me, I asked, “Is that true?”

He hummed in inquiry, still gnawing my shoulder.

“40.”

“In March,” Oliver said and finally let up. “Time waiteth not, young man.”

Although we’d never celebrated a birthday together, I knew how old he was: 39, not almost 40.

Oliver closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the bed exposing his Adam’s apple. My eyes stroked the firm flesh and soft fur beneath the first few open buttons of his shirt. My fingers itched.

He used to comment on the length of my neck. Wrap his hands around it while he drove into me from behind. I sat beside him, roiling like a well-behaved vampire.

His head rolled aside on the mattress and he smiled - exhausted, sloshed, or both. Still clutching the bottle in both hands.

His shoes lay, capsized, in separate corners. The kind the wife must have bought on sale at JC Pennys, along with the khakis and the wretched paisley shirt.

I was still fully dressed in a Stones t-shirt, dark jacket, designer jeans, and a pair of hand-made Italian shoes that cost more than Oliver’s flight. Dignity intact.

He grinned and nudged his bare foot against my calf, flirting like a middle schoolers. This wasn’t going anywhere. Oliver wanted to drink, and reminisce, about being young with none of the risk.  
That was fine, too. Maybe better. Nothing to regret the next day.

When there was only an ounce of flavored spit at the bottom of the bottle, he chucked it lamely across the room.

“Tell me this, Elio. Who let you grow up?”

I snickered and asked, “Who let you get fat?”

He shoved so hard I tipped over.

“I am not fat.” With drunk difficulty, Oliver climbed into a kneeling position. “You want to see?”

“No.”

I wanted to taste.

He grappled with the buttons. One popped across the room with a quiet plunk before he’d peeled off his hideous shirt.

Less defined, but still every inch a marvel.

I wet my lips. Curled my fists. Aching to touch what wasn’t mine. Oliver scratched his left pec, watching my face.

If we fucked, what would it mean? Nothing. Just like with everyone else. All I had to do afterward was walk away and feel nothing. I’d been doing it for years.

I lunged and landed awkwardly in his arms. Oliver laughed and dropped me on the floor where I failed to fight off the great ape wrestling off my shoes. He launched a merciless tickling campaign. I kicked weakly, broke free, and crawled a few feet before collapsing onto my face. When Oliver rolled me onto my back, I lay there winded, yielding to the strong hands kneading my soles.

“Still so tense,” he said.

I gave him the finger but lacked the will to lift my hand.

Oliver chuckled and licked my instep, a smoldering gaze level with mine. His tongue curled around my big toe and the wildfire rushed to my cock.

Oliver smiled, no doubt recalling the night we snuck a bottle of Father’s best bourbon to my room, emptying it before we emptied ourselves into each other.

“I loved you so much,” the liquor-soaked words spilled from my lips.

“You were one sexy little thing.”

I kicked his chest, and he laughed.

I was sexy. Past tense.  
How could it be otherwise? Hell, I’d grown a soul patch.

“Asshole,” I said.

“Mmhm.”

Oliver slithered over me, dwarfing my body with his, same as it ever was. The sloppy kisses slathered across my face were new and not entirely pleasant. Then came the gratuitous, 70s porn moans. If he meant those noises to be a turnon, they had the opposite effect.

I tapped his back to make him stop. I thought to pull the ‘how’s your wife?’ card. But I didn’t give an actual shit about Oliver’s wife. This was happening. I just needed to stop fighting it.

He murmured his own name and my thighs fell open. His rod dug into my hip. As I gripped solid muscle and angled for more pressure, the former sex god shuddered and groaned.

“Did you just—”

Oliver slackened, his full weight crushing me. He used to ask if he was too heavy. On top of a grown man, he only stammered apologies.

“Shit,” Oliver mumbled and rolled off. “Do you want me to…”

“No,” I said, batting away his hand. “Just get some sleep.”

In under a minute, he’d taken my advice - right there on the floor. When the room stopped tilting, I clambered to my feet, tugged the comforter from the bed onto the snoring lump, and made my way home.


	5. Chapter 5

I was nearly too drunk to walk. I certainly shouldn't have been behind the wheel. At the first stoplight, my bemused fog spiraled into maniacal laughter. The lady in the car beside me stared, and I cackled even louder. By the time the driver’s side tire crashed into the centerpiece fountain of my horseshoe driveway, I was a brain-fucked wreck. 

I stumbled in the dark, greeted by the warning beeps of the state-of-the-art alarm system. Intruders beware.

Once I’d punched in the code, the place descended into silence. The click of overpriced soles on marble tiles echoed off the walls. I floated straight for the bar, pausing only for a bottle of Scotch.

In reaching the top shelf, I caught a whiff of Oliver’s scent on my sleeve. Unmistakable. His aftershave, his sweat. And not quiet notes. Trumpets blaring his essence.

I promptly peeled off my jacket, shirt and slacks. The fucker was clinging to my skin. I showered him off.  
  
It was never too late to call the agency for a quick, uncomplicated fuck. I dialed the first four digits, and then hung up. I set the speakers to blast Blood Sugar Sex Majik throughout my hollow home while I wandered onto the balcony and stared at the deep, black ocean. 

My mobile phone slept on the glass table. If not an escort, no one else to call. Oliver’s LA number was saved in my contacts, but he was unconscious. Besides, what would I even say? My silly little love confession hung in my memory's Hall of Shame as a crowning mistake. If I talked to Oliver now, I'd only have more to feel dumb about.

I perched naked on a stool. Howled along when Anthony Kiedis crooned Breaking the Girl. Let the sliver of moon dangle in the sky like a fingernail clipping while I dove into a joyless sea of alcohol.

***

The bothersome woodpecker in my dream turned out to be my own chattering teeth. Dew had settled overnight. In the precious hours before sunrise, I was freezing my naked nuts off.

The best thing for my ailing brain was thick coffee and greasy eggs. I cooked, drank and ate standing in my kitchen. Then I gave myself two minutes to lean on the counter before I pulled on the same dark shades, and picked up Oliver from his hotel. 

He glanced at me once or twice, but intelligence, decency or his own hangover kept him silent. I was unbearably, knee-shakingly nervous at my first meeting with a director. And the second, and third. These people can be ridiculous, but you roll with it.   
I might have said something to ease his nerves, but my aching skull was his damn fault. So, we both suffered.

Chris had suggested this cafe owned by her ex. The decor was Japanese-inspired and almost charming, but nowhere I’d have chosen. I grumbled our reservation to the hostess and shuffled to find Chris’ table. A husky, fifty-something, Santa Claus of a woman with short, once-dark hair and a man's shirt, she always talked twice as loudly on her phone as anyone else conducting a conversation in the vicinity. Industry speak spewed out of her like a second language. The woman was a double EGOT; she’d earned every right to her obnoxious pretensions.

“Chris,” I began the introductions. “Oliver.”

She shooshed me with a finger and continued her phone convo. Thirty-three and shooshed like a seven-year-old. My face lit up, but I ordered another cup of coffee and a salad, ignoring Oliver as he blinked helplessly at the waterfall between the glass panes - a domestic goldfish newly dropped into the ocean. 

When Chris finally closed her flip phone, she looked between us and gave Oliver an appraising humph. 

“So,” she began. “This beauty is the brain behind this waste of tree?”

She tossed a copy of his award-winning treatise across the table. My eyes bulged even wider than Oliver’s. Chris could be a bitch, but this assault was brazen, even for her. 

Oliver glanced at the next table to see if there were any witnesses to the trashing of his opus, as if anyone would know or care what we were talking about. My mouth fell open. I considered defending Oliver’s work. I’d bought it, just like I’d purchased the other two, but he wrote like Nietzsche in arcane 30-word sentences. For a layman, the thing was barely readable. Still…

“Not exactly light fare,” Oliver admitted through pinched lips. 

“I’m fucking with you. You know that right?” Chris grinned at me and lit up a cigarillo. “He knows that, right? It’s superb. And you. Look at you. We might have to put him in the movie, huh, Elio? How’d you like to see this one shirtless in a chariot?”

She laughed and quickly launched into expansive detail about her cinematic vision, punctuated with inquiries about historical accuracy. In reply, Oliver gave an extended explanation or description. 

The previous night, he’d been soggy, but travel-weary, ouzo-sodden Oliver was gone. The brilliant historian was back in full shine.  
Chris had done her homework. Oliver still breathed this stuff.

Thanks to my classical upbringing, I had an inkling of what they were talking about. But with my pop-fueled adulthood, I was less than equipped to weigh in. So, I melted into the impenetrable bass of Oliver’s voice. Recommitted his thin lips, thick eyebrows and his long long fingers to memory. Recalling the places those hands and that face had been.  
I hid behind my mug and basked in the Oliver I’d adored. 

When the preliminary interview was done, Chris sat back in her chair and folded her hands over her belly. Oliver’s smirk ignited a fresh surge of heat. I glanced away and let the familiar fire snake through my veins. Maybe it had never died but only lain dormant in my core, waiting for Oliver’s return. 

He pilfered a scalloped carrot from my plate with his fingers, popped it between his perfect teeth and winked.

Chris’ gaze brightened and darted between us. “Do I sense a bit of history here?”

“Miss Hollingsworth.” Oliver said. “History is my speciality.”

I never wanted to fuck anyone more. 

***

Forty minutes later, we’d taken our leave of Chris and the cafe. I parked the Range Rover on a secluded neck of Baldwin Lake. Enough car for even his insanely long legs. This side of the lake was idyllic and verdant as if it had remained untouched for fifty years. The perfect watering hole to dive into after you’ve gotten good and dirty.

I asked in passing, to make conversation. Oliver explained for an hour about writing his books, and winning awards, and how they just didn’t sell. His agent, the publisher, no one could explain it. He'd never wanted to teach. So, his family lived off the paltry royalties.

By anyone’s definition, I’d been successful. I couldn’t imagine gazing in the mirror every morning and seeing a giant, stunning failure. Still, there was chivalry in Oliver's catastrophe. I’d been composing music for other peoples’ visions, but I’d never risked sharing my own songs with the world.

While I mused, Oliver curled a hand around the nape of my neck and pulled me into a tender, sweet kiss. I grabbed his lapels and practically swallowed his tongue.

“Okay,” he said, catching his breath. 

I crawled into the backseat. Oliver followed laughing. Button and zipper - quick work. I lifted my hips. He yanked my slacks around my thighs and took me in his mouth. Bobbing fast, like he could make up for last night, and lost time by slurping and gagging. I leaned back and let the man pretend to redeem himself. 

At one point, he spoke around a mouthful of cock. 

“What?”

Oliver pulled off to repeat, “You’ve grown.”

Smiling, I pushed him back down and rose to fill his throat. We were back, finding our groove. All the urgency, the intensity, the all-consuming blaze I'd never replicated with anyone.

Then, his phone rang. 

Oliver sat up and patted his pockets.

“Are you kidding me?”

He gave me the same ‘wait a minute’ finger Chris had done and flipped open the phone.

“Hey, hon.”

I’d bought Oliver that phone so he could communicate with me, and Chris. It was a predictable betrayal that he’d have given the number to his wife. I ripped it from his hand and tossed it into the front seat, fully aware that I was being a baby.

My Oliver would have laughed. This Oliver glared.

With his sophistication and grace, with his looks, charm and intelligence, he’d likely never used brute force to make his way. Maybe never hit a guy in his life. But was he above it? That look made me wonder how Oliver would kill me, if it ever came to that. With his bare hands around my neck. Thumbs digging into my larynx, cutting off the air supply. My years of Tai Chi wouldn’t offer much defense. 

The phone rang again. Oliver stepped out of the car, fixed his pants and retrieved it from the passenger’s side floor. I threw my head back and sighed. Should have known. I was never a priority. I was something fun to do one summer. 

Clothing adjusted and back in the driver’s seat, I watched Oliver pace as he spoke. He scratched his hair and shook his head, obviously stressed. Eventually, he climbed back in and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

The call was from his wife. That much I knew. People say that women have extra senses. This female was across the country and mystically knew her husband was about to get laid. Was that what she called to say? Selfish bitch. God forbid Oliver enjoy himself for a change. When was the last time she put out?

But this was all speculation. What did I know?

Rather than speak, I waited. Eventually, Oliver sighed and asked, ”How far are we from Utah?"


	6. Chapter 6

As expected, I found a Rand McNally book of all fifty state maps in my trunk, along with the spare tire, jumper cables and a first of kit - none of which I’d ever used.

We stopped at a gas station for a 4 x 4 chart of Utah to spread over the hood. Standing there, studying the system of roads that spiderveined across the state, our elbows and hips knocking. I thought less of driving and more of unfurling myself in the same position with Oliver behind me, working open my buckle.  
  
He sought our destination and circled it with a Sharpie. I’d cleared my calendar to chauffeur Oliver to meetings and show him around, but driving into the desert wasn’t on the original program. Nevertheless, an impromptu road trip held promise.

When I was 18, Conner Riga and I drove to Vancouver to scout locations for his film. Most of the trip, we told each other bawdy jokes and true stories. We sang to each other and together, although it was hard to tell which had the worse voice. We even held hands for a little while, a minor miracle for a man so morally opposed to affection that wouldn’t lead directly to sex.  
We watched license plates. Took turns at the wheel. For those three days, I loved him. 

I’d already adored Oliver once, and was floating perilously near those waters again.

In any case, I had a list of questions. Was marriage any good? Did he regret? Did he cheat? And I mean more than rolling around on the floor humping like a bunch of teenagers. Did he love the wife? Or anyone else, ever? God knows, I’d tell him anything he asked. Hell, if we hit a good station, there might even be singing.

“Can we get going?” Oliver asked with one foot already in the car.

“Guess you don’t want to take a scenic route?”

“No.”

I turned over the engine and held up a bag of pizza-flavored Combos. Oliver scowled at the offering and turned to face the window.

Once we were out of the city, traffic eased, and I settled into the mountains’ shadow. We cruised along 210. It was well before noon - early enough for a smooth drive.

From time to time, I glanced at Oliver and filed through my list of questions. Was marriage any good? Did he ever regret it? Right now, was he worried or angry?  
My passenger had transformed into Fort Oliver, closed off, impenetrable.

Only I had. The first time was in my bedroom with the sweet orchard air flowing in from the balcony and blending with our thick, heady scent. He’d rolled off me onto his stomach, his giant body hogging most of the mattress real estate. I was still on my belly myself, chasing breath, wondering how I’d survive without getting fucked every night. 

“You want to?” His voice was more vibration than sound.

I scooted closer, not trusting my ears. Oliver pecked my nose and smirked.  
  
“Come on. Make me weep."

I'll never forget that involuntary reaction after our first time. Although he'd held and comforted me, I descended into a deeper crying, snorting fit that eventually became so ridiculous that we were both cackling.

I leapt onto Oliver's back and muffled his titters with a pillow. The first time I topped him, if he cried it was from laughter while calling me a puppy.

In the car, I had to smile, warmly reminded that, despite appearances, Oliver was not always unyielding. My right hand rested high on my thigh, casually thumbing the ridge of my plumpening cock. Under different circumstances, I’d have moved the hand to Oliver’s leg, or taken his. It seemed safer to toss a kernel of white cheddar popcorn at his ear. He turned from the window, his face tight with annoyance and concern. 

So, no shenanigans on the road.

I turned on the radio. He clicked it back off. “Can’t think.”

My tongue slid across my teeth, willing the frustration back down to the pit of my gut.

“Why don’t you sleep?” I said. “I’ll wake you when we’re close.”

I drove in the outer silence, inner clamor of my own thoughts - over the mountain, down into the desert. Beautiful country. Had Oliver ever been to Las Vegas? It’s a sight, even by daylight. But he’d run away with my advice and fallen asleep with his chin on his chest, like a much older, more fragile man. 

A long-stagnant urge stirred in me. A twinge of longing like a dart in my chest. Too long since I’d seen my father. How were the years changing him? When would they take him? How could I go back and pretend I hadn’t squandered all his goodwill, expectations and hopes for his only son? 

Beside me snored a father and a son. Even with the A/C blasting, I could smell him loud and strong: hotel soap failing by the minute to mask that sweet, familiar sweat. If I could touch him, reach beneath the skin, like I thought I had so long ago, maybe Oliver could understand the shame and loss I could barely articulate. Maybe he could tell me something of fatherhood that would restore me to mine. Somehow, even when we stopped to eat or fill the car, very little passed between us, as if the desert sun was drying up the conversation and lust. All there was between us was more sand and dust.

As directed, we exited Highway 80 onto Skull Valley Road and arrived in Iosepa as the sun was ducking behind us for cover. A thousand miles of sky lit up orange and plum so vibrant, I would have remarked if I thought Oliver could care. 

Instead, I consulted the map and asked, “Is this right?”

Iosepa might once have been a town. It’s nothing now but dust, a cemetery, and a few hand-painted signs pointing errant wanderers back toward the main road.

We were somewhere within Oliver’s circle. The instructions were, drive to Iosepa and keep going. We’d done that and were easing down an unmarked road where no street lamps had ever shone. Once the sun went down, this goose hunt would end. We’d have to return the next day. 

“There!”

Oliver pointed at a flash in the distance. Still, it was more than the nothing behind us. I steered toward the flickering silver mirage, ignoring the lack of pavement, searching my scientific knowledge quicksand, and privately praying to escape this shithole alive. 

People abandon places for a reason.

In deference of the signs, we approached at 10 MPH. The silver Airstream trailer reigned over a drove of humanoid statues assuming various poses. They were pieced together with buckets, beams, aluminum cans, and other forms of human refuse. One of these figures perched on a actual toilet while the sun's dying rays lit up the trash heap near the trailer like burnished gold.

During our drive, the one time Oliver spoke more than three words was to explain how it had come to this. His boy had left ten minutes behind his father, hitched with a trucker most of the way. In Wyoming, he’d climbed into a van load of frat boys who thought it hilarious to dump the kid in the desert. He’d hoofed for however many miles, lucky as hell to stumble upon the trailer of the sole resident of this … town. That man, an artist and a hermit had granted the kid water and a phone call. Human decency notwithstanding, he wanted the boy gone sooner than possible. 

A real, flesh and beard human being stood by the trailer and waved. Not a kid. An adult man in paint-splattered overalls. The hermit. Good casting.  
When he saw us approaching, he ducked into the trailer. 

For his shotgun, I assumed, and pumped the brakes. Oliver unbuckled his seatbelt. 

The town’s lone resident returned, followed by a miserable-looking beanpole of a kid. Dust-coated and slumped, possibly with heat exhaustion.

Oliver hopped out and strode directly to the artist with his hand outstretched like a politician. He plucked his wallet from his pocket and tried in vain, to pay for the inconvenience. The old man retreated into his home. The aluminum sides were decorated with grisly animal-skulled human skeletons that didn’t make me want to get closer.

The sky was a bruised blue-black. Time to leave. 

Oliver, however, had a kid to fuss at. Apparently, he’d stored up his verbal quota to spew it at the boy. I opened the door and the speech spilled in.

“What’s wrong with you? … some kind of idiot…”

I shut it again and waited out the storm. Most of the scolding I’d suffered as a boy had come courtesy of Mafalda or Anchise. It had gone stale by the time I was twelve.

Oliver tapped his son on the forehead. Not hard. Not exactly violence. Neither was it a familiar gesture. I wasn’t sure how to place it. So, I took my focus off the sire and placed it on the heir. 

Oliver said son. I’d imagined a child. 

He was not that, in the strictest sense of the word. A replica of Oliver’s broad shoulders and perfect proportions, but younger than I’d ever witnessed. Instead of his father’s smooth, golden hair, the boy was plagued with the same unruly, dark cloud I’ve been under all my life. He looked, for lack of a better description, as if Oliver and I had borne a child. I swiftly banished the ridiculous notion from my mind. 

The boy nodded, but never met his father’s glare. Glanced at the artist’s house. At me in the car, off into the desert, over his shoulder at the waning sun. Oliver gripped the front of his shirt and shook. Again, no cruelty. But also no kindness. 

The last thing I wanted to do was interrupt this strange parenting ritual, and incur Oliver’s wrath, but if we got stranded in the desert, none of us would be thrilled. 

I leaned on the horn and they both looked up. Then Oliver continued ranting.   
So, I got out of the car, shut the door loudly as warning of my approach. Oliver didn’t let it interrupt his lecture.

My impression of the boy didn’t much change at close range. He wasn't as thin as I’d thought. A smaller, younger duplicate of Oliver’s body. My height. Crazier curls than I’ve ever had. Under a shifting half-inch of tawny Skull Valley dust. Then he leveled a vapid, apologetic gaze at me, and I saw her. The woman. In a face that was not unattractive, but wide and empty. 

Fascination evaporated leaving dry streaks of cold truth I should have seen before: this boy was the product of Oliver’s unfaithfulness to me, his dedication to her.

Hatred, plain and natural, flooded my tongue with bile. I should have let him die in the desert. Let the crows pluck the flesh and the sun suck the bones.

That was extreme. I took a moment to reign in my wayward thoughts. I knew the moment Oliver said, "son" that he'd come between us, but I didn’t want to hate this kid. I just wanted to get the fuck out of the desert.

“Can we go?”

Oliver sighed and shook off the last of his frustration.

The boy stared at me with unveiled, unnerving intensity. Oliver glanced between us for a few seconds and raised a hand in reluctant presentation. “Elio Perlman, this is my oldest son.”

He nudged, and the boy’s arm lifted, as if a gear had sprung in his shoulder.   
I know how it looked, opting to pat my jeans pockets, my breast pockets and stare back at the car rather than take his extended hand. 

If I’ve ever been a dick in my life, this was not one of those moments. This was the brain-searing instant of panic when I realized that I’d locked the keys in the running car in the desert at sundown. 


	7. Chapter 7

“No, no, no.”

I ran back to the driver’s door. 

“Fuck.”

I’d scrambled around, checked all four handles and the trunk, by the time Oliver and his kid moseyed over. I cupped my hands on the passenger window and squinted through the darkness. There they hung, less than two feet away.

“What’s going on?” Oliver asked, like he couldn’t see full well what was going on.

If he had come when I honked and saved the scolding for a private moment like normal people, this wouldn’t be happening. Or if I’d kept my ass in LA, or he’d stayed in Boston. 

I glowered at the real culprit. Everything was going perfectly until the bee in this kid’s bonnet told him to follow his dad across the country. Three quarters of my mind wanted to give him the same treatment Oliver had. I could see how yelling at someone who couldn’t yell back would have its advantages.

But he wasn’t my son, so I turned back to the trailer and repeated, “Fuck.”

It was good and proper night. Inky dark with cool wind rustling the dust and perking my nipples. The only terrestrial light glowed orange from the hermit’s window slits. The Milky Way swirled overhead, breathtaking and useless. Not enough light to see by. I hadn’t seen stars in years, but given the situation, it was hard to be awed.

“What are we supposed to do?”

The engine hummed quietly, but offered no answers.

Oliver suggested we smash a window with a rock.

“Why should I smash my window?” 

“Why not? You’ll just get it replaced when you get back.”

Would he be in such a rush to smash the window if it was his month old truck?

“We could ask Lionel,” the boy suggested.

“You be quiet.”

I looked between them, or the direction of their voices.

“No, he’s right,” I hated to admit.

The phones were in the car, and there was probably no signal anyway. There was no other reasonable choice. We’d knock on the recluse’s door, call AAA, and be out in an hour. Since the kid had dragged us into the desert, and was on a first name basis with the maniac, and was also the most expendable member of our party, I put forth that he should do the asking.

Without hesitation, his footsteps shuffled softly toward the trailer. It was obvious that anyone living alone in the middle of the desert wasn’t playing with all 88 keys. As he walked, I started kicking around for that rock. Always good to have a backup plan.

The trailer door swung open and cast a flood of light around the boy as his silhouette gestured to the car. In under a minute, he shouted back, “It’s cool.”

Cool would have been relaxing on my balcony with a Pinot Grigio. I grumbled and followed Oliver all the way to the cylinder blocks that served as steps. At least, the lunatic was unlikely to assault someone Oliver’s size. Unless the man was armed, which was damn likely out here.

“Fuck.”

“Locked yourselves out, huh?” The old man sat at the pullout table across from the kitchenette, shucking corn.

An indescribable odor engulfed the place. An organic, animal stink I assumed was unwashed human. A pot on the two-range stove was already bubbling and steaming. There was barely space for the three of us to stand shoulder to shoulder. Oliver had to duck.

“You’re letting bugs in,” Lionel, the hermit, mumbled. 

I let the door shut behind me. It wasn’t exactly dirty in the place, so much as dusty and poorly lit. And rank.

“Well, I’d tell you to call a locksmith,” he said. “but nobody’s coming out here at this hour to get lost in that dark.”

So much for Oliver’s rock idea. Even if we could get into the car, what were the chances we could navigate our way back to the main road?

Lionel stood, dropped a bare ear into the pot and started stripping another.

The boy asked, “Is there any chance we could, maybe, stay here?”

“Eliot!”

Lionel sucked noisily on his teeth. Oliver seethed at his kid who replied with an apologetic shrug. I stopped breathing and tried to comprehend how I hadn’t heard the boy’s name before. 

“Well, I suppose…”

“That isn’t necessary,” Oliver said, speaking too soon for all of us. 

“Listen, I can… I have money in the car,” I said. “By sunup, we’ll need a locksmith and tow truck, but we’ll be out of your hair and I can offer you three hundred bucks for the trouble.”

“Well, I got gas, so you can skip the tow.” Lionel plopped another cob into his cauldron. “Just don’t get a lot of company out here. On purpose.”

Oliver inhaled to speak, and I held up a hand.

“I understand that, Mr…”

The man looked between us, sighed and finally answered, “Nelson.”

He shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Eliot. Oliver’s son, Eliot, dropped his bag on the floor and sat across from Lionel Nelson, the hermit, tugging clumsily at a tuft of silk at the end of an ear.

“Well, go on and have a seat,” Nelson said. “And you can quit calling me, sir. Can’t be too much older than your giant. You call him sir?”

Oliver scowled, but settled on the stiff-looking sofa. He’d been unreachable since his wife called. Now, he was icing over.

“Mr. Nelson, may I use your facilities.”

The man pointed the way with his corn. The unholy stench was certainly emanating from the bathroom. Still, I ducked in to piss and for a moment of privacy. The whole name thing hadn’t settled in my stomach. The information ricocheted off my ribs, kicking up questions and confusion. I washed my hands and concluded it was coincidence. If someone names their kid after you, they'd say so, wouldn't they? It was probably a nod to the poet, or any other thing.

A faint squeaking drew my attention to the shower, so I drew back the glass door. A foul blast of pure stink smacked me. I pinched my nose and peered into a white bucket at dark lizards squirming over each other in a half-foot of water. The knock on the door made me jump. 

“Hey. Don’t shit in there. Shitting, you got to do outside.”

I dried my hands on my jeans rather than touch the filthy rag that laid by the sink.

“You didn’t mess with my caimans?” Lionel asked. 

He was standing over the stove, pointing at me with a pair of steel tongs, a severe look on his leathery face. His beard hung nearly into the pot and I made a silent vow not to eat until we were back in civilization.

“No, sir,” I answered.

“What did I say?”

“Sorry.”

“And I don’t need your money. I bet you’d shit yourself if you knew how much I don’t need your damn money.” He chuckled to himself. “Hey, Eliot, why don’t you tell these two a story?”

Eliot leaned on the door, nursing an off-brand soda. Oliver hadn’t budged from his spot at the far end of the trailer. According to the legend, Lionel Nelson had been a high-powered corporate lawyer. Three years ago, at age 46, he had a heart attack. 

“My life was killing me,” he said, interrupting Eliot’s capable telling. 

Languishing on the floor of his office, Lionel Nelson made a decision that if he lived, he’d leave his job, his wife, and go live exactly the way he wanted. 

I watched Oliver’s reactionless face.

Nelson was looking at him, too, pointing those accusing tongs. “You... You’re a miserable cuss, aren’t you? Married, I bet. Got some kind of job you hate. Good kids, maybe but snared up too tight to gnaw off your own leg.” Then, he aimed at me again. “I don’t know what you got. What kind of work you do? And the giant.”

You could as likely draw blood from a stone as make Oliver talk. He looked to be cracking a tooth, three words from wreck our rescue. His boiling point hadn’t been so low when I knew him, but that was a lifetime ago.  
  
While I mused over Oliver, Eliot answered for us both. “He’s a musician, I think. And my dad’s a writer.”

“Now, that’s honest work. Why they don’t look happier?” Lionel humphed. “What does your dad write?”

“History texts.”

“Ah, see? That’s not writing. It’s regurgitating.”

Nelson looked over and waited for Eliot to unravel what was wrong with me.

The kid shrugged and looked at my knees rather than meet my eyes. “I'm not sure what he does.”

“I score films,” I said, willing them both to shut up.

Nelson’s brow raised. “That sounds interesting.”

“It is.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Good. It’s a trap. Lucky for me, I never had children. No offense, son,” he said to Eliot, as if we weren’t all somebody’s children. “What did I tell you, kid? Honor your —“

"Heart,” Oliver's son completed the sentence.

“Your life is —“

“Art,” Eliot answered like a proper disciple.

If he was looking for approval, it wasn’t coming from Oliver who glared at the hermit like he'd gladly strangle the man who'd rescued his son.

And I’d had enough of the circus. I was tired of Oliver's crabby attitude, sick of the Lionel's preaching, and fed up with the kid. My yawn was only fifty percent theatrics. Lionel Nelson nodded and directed his tongs to a cove behind me. “You three can squeeze in there the best way you can. It’ll be cozy, but there you go.”

I mumbled goodnight and walked down to find two stone-hard single beds on either side of the trailer. The went on conversation behind me.

“What about you kid?” Lionel asked. “Give anymore thought to it?”

“To what?” Oliver asked, ill-temper dripping from his voice. 

“I told your kid to figure out what he loves most and give his life to it. He still has time to live well.”

Eliot’s chuckle sounded like a tacit apology for talking to strangers.  
  
“Are we paying for the advice?” Oliver asked. 

“Nope,” Lionel replied, good-natured. “That’s free.”

“Good thing. Scoot,” he said, I assumed to Eliot. “Mr. Nelson.”

I was laying with my ankles crossed, hands beneath my head. There wasn’t much to discuss. Two adults, two beds. Oliver was too long for his. He was too long for any bed we’d ever shared. Did he have to special order his bed, or did he always roll into a fetal position like he did that night, with his back to me and his kid? 

Over in the kitchenette, Nelson hummed and smacked on his corn. Eliot settled down on the hard floor between us with his backpack for a pillow. 

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

Oliver didn’t reply, and I was so close to sleep it wasn’t really pretending.

It had been an impossible day, and I wanted nothing more than to make the boy disappear. The next day, we’d return to LA and put him on the first flight back to his mother. 

A few hours later, I woke to the rattle of metal walls. For a moment, I thought it was a tremor. I’d lived through enough of those in Malibu to hate them dearly. But it was only Oliver’s snoring. 

I rolled over and ran a hand down my face. The beds were close enough to smack his back and make him shut up, at least for a while. 

At that same moment, Lionel Nelson opened his bathroom door, whispering to his caimans. Before he cut the light, I glanced down and discovered that Oliver’s oldest son didn’t have his father’s steel blue eyes. Eliot’s were wide open and gray.


	8. Chapter 8

We set out before dawn, with Lionel waving in the rearview mirror. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the ride back to LA was tenser and even more unpleasant.

Oliver offered to drive some, but he also insisted on listening to NPR. He returned a missed call from Chris and agreed to meet her on set at 6PM. That. required us to floor it, stopping only for gas and fast food.

At one point, when my eyes were closed, arms folded (as if a person can relax while someone’s talking about droughts in Central America) Eliot spoke:

“Dad, I—“

“You be quiet,” Oliver said. “I mean it. Not a word.”

So the majority of the speaking was done by the disembodied, dispassionate voices on the radio.

The kid looked old enough to drive but I didn’t risk the fallout to inquire. With a quick appraising glance in the mirror, I decided he looked between voting and drinking age, although the math made no sense. He’d have to be thirteen or fourteen although his size made a more mature impression.

He looked back at me and I glanced away. We hadn’t exchanged a word yet, and that was fine with me. What did I have to say to Oliver’s teenager?

For the most part, I drove. Oliver watched the landscape through his window. Eliot watched through his.

Once we reached the hotel, Oliver gave his kid the room key and promised to be down in ten minutes so I could taxi him to his meeting.

I took the opportunity for a cigarette, since I’d only managed to sneak two during the drive. No one had asked me not to do it around Eliot. It just seemed like the right thing, like waiting for the crosswalk signal when a kid is watching.

Oliver returned with a tan button-down shirt tucked into his khakis, like he was ready for safari. I didn’t say a word about his fashion choices. Hair slicked back. Fresh shaved, but still haggard. I was tempted to touch his face and tell him he was still perfect.

“Hey, listen,” I said, starting the car. “I could get him on the next flight.”

Oliver tensed and shook his head. “No. He can sit in that room.”

He sounded vaguely like a witch cursing a princess, but I didn’t say another word about it. His kid, his call. There seemed to be something else we should say, but neither of us spoke.

Half an hour later, I idled in front of the studio, gave him a tight smile and a thumbs up.

“You’ll have your phone?” Oliver asked.

“I always do. Just call when you’re done,” I said, and then, like a mother dropping her kid for his first day of school, I added. “It’ll be great.”

Oliver nodded curtly and got out.  
Of course, it would be great. He’d already aced the initial interview and hadn’t requested the pep talk. Why did I bring Oliver here at all?

Now his spawn was ruining whatever chance we’d had at reconnecting.

Maybe that was a plan. The woman sent the boy to spy. Well, that could go both ways.

I’d cleared my calendar and had nothing to do that evening but await Oliver’s call. The Ritz was on my shortest route back home. It seemed cruel to leave the boy locked in a tower when he could be seeing the sights, and spilling his parents’ beans. I didn’t need to know everything about Oliver’s life. Just anything.

With a bit of gentle prodding, I’d get enough information to interpret, if not how often his parents fought, and fucked. Whether Oliver was happy. It was lame, but curiosity is a disease.

It was too late to visit the Getty, but in return for the information, I’d show the kid the Walk of Fame, and the Hollywood sign. He’d be grateful. So would I. Then, I’d quietly return him to the hotel trusting his better judgment not to talk about our little excursion. It was a sound, if stupid plan.

One thing was sure: he could eat.

I sat in the Nickel diner, watching Oliver’s son Hoover scrambled eggs like breakfast for dinner was in a competition. With the clank of cutlery and din of other peoples' conversations as a soundtrack, he peeked up between his black curls and hummed his gratitude. I’d ordered but not yet touched my coffee.

He didn’t resemble his father in the least. No sapphire eyes, bronzed skin, spun-gold hair. Still, his easy grace and that smile were unshakably familiar. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Pale and thin with wild dark curls. Like Oliver and me.

“You’re him, right?” He asked, shattering my reverie.

“What?”

Eliot dismantled a pancake with long, slender fingers like his father’s. Surgeon’s hands. Or a violinist’s.

“My dad told me all about you?”

His dad didn’t know all about me. He knew whatever he’d learned in a few weeks fifteen years earlier. Still, I took a drink to douse the spark in the center of my chest.

“Yeah?”

Eliot nodded and slid a morsel between his teeth. He chewed like a calf, as if he wasn’t shattering my world just by existing.

“He said—“

“You know what, why don’t you eat?”

Suddenly, I could see why Oliver had shut him down. My head was already spinning.

“Listen,” I said clearing my throat. “When you’re finished, we’ll go see the sights. No more talking, okay?”

“Okay.”

He ordered another glass of milk and I watched the traffic to make the time pass.

On the drive downtown, Eliot perched in the passenger seat nodding along to the Doobie Brothers. I grinned and signaled for a left. He started humming and I chuckled.

When the chorus came around, he sang.

I glanced over. Eliot fell quiet. I checked over my shoulder for traffic, and he started up again. I looked over and blinked, unsure I’d heard what I’d heard.

“Sorry.”

I turned down the radio.

“I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, keep singing,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Eliot, sing.”

He swallowed the first few words:  
“Give me the beat boys and free my soul”

By the time he got lost in the rock n roll, a soft electricity was dancing over my skin. I could spew cliches about bell-like clarity, the soulful, honeyed tone, the unique familiarity. Great singing is not about the sound. It’s a soaring and sinking vibration that carries the listener’s soul along with it. Why this kid’s voice should have that effect on me, I don’t know. All I can say is that he moved me.

Music always poured out through my fingers. Any instrument in my hand, teaches me its language. I could never sing. This boy made my bones into pitchforks.

He sang the chorus once through, scratched his head and shrugged.

It was a bad idea. Even as it was unfolding in my mind, I knew it was a mistake, impossible not to make.

“You mind if we take a… just a half-hour detour?”

“Whatever.”

He twiddled his fingers on his knee for the rest of the drive.

Oliver’s son, Eliot, entered my house like it was his first time at Disney.

“You live here?”

He gawked at the chandelier, gazed in awe at my bust of Beethoven - a gag gift from a short-lived girlfriend. He pretended to adjust Ludwig’s cravat, then let his fingers dance along my marbletop credenza as he pored, wide-mouthed over the foyer.

“Wow,” he said, gazing up the winding staircase. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head and covered a grin.

He dashed halfway up the stairs and hopped onto the bannister. His attempt to slide down was thwarted by gravity and lack of practice. I’d done the same thing fifty times when I first moved in. Eliot shouted as he careened over the side and landed on the tile.

Before I could reach his side, he sat up, smile knocked crooked.

“This house is awesome.”

“Thank you.”

I offered my hand to help him to his feet. He accepted and stood, dusting off his butt. I followed forbidding myself to evaluate thin hips in sagging jeans.

Eliot hopped over and ducked behind my bar, hoisting the first thing his grubby hands found - a bottle of 1940 Chablis.

“You want?”

“Put that down.”

He frowned for the first time since we’d entered the house. “My dad lets me.”

“Your dad’s not here.”

I drank my first half-glass of champagne at nine. Still, it didn’t seem appropriate without Eliot’s parents’ permission.

Besides, we weren’t there for leisure.

I invited my young guest to join me in the basement. If the upstairs was Disney, the studio was Shangri-la. The hinge on his jaw busted. His mouth didn’t close while he petted and stroked my guitars and mandolins that hung along the wall.

I folded my arms, watching in quiet amusement. “Do you play?”

He shook his head. “Viola, but not really.”

Eliot scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue to indicate how much he’d enjoyed the lessons. I’d never mastered the strings.

“May I?”

I nodded and he plucked a 1958 Martin acoustic from its hook. Eliot hunkered down on the edge of the couch, demonstrating his lack of skill with rhythmless strums.

“Will you sing for me again?” I asked.

He looked up, eyes wide. “If you like. What should it be?”

I reached for the guitar, tuned, and played the opening riff to Drift Away. As in the car, he began softly, singing to his toes. As he warmed up, his face opened, clear eyes never leaving mine. I would have given anything to harmonize, but I’ve never trusted my voice.

When the song was through, he stuck his thumbnail between his teeth.

“That was…”

I still don’t have words for Eliot’s voice. Stirring was an understatement. He simply had a gift. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the curls and letting them fall again in utter disarray.

“Can you play Memory from Cats?” he asked. “That’s my favorite song.”

I stifled the groan. I’d heard that song about ten thousand times, but had never deigned to play it.

I thought I was over that show and its music, but when Eliot had sung it, I couldn’t clap and shatter the moment. I inhaled, as if I could breathe in what he’d poured into the song.

With all composition I’d done, very few people had ever heard my songs. Lyrics and chords. I’d never heard a voice I wanted singing them until Eliot, Son of Oliver.

“Do you sing a lot at home?”

He shrugged. How it was possible to have that level of talent and shrug about it, I’ll never understand.

“I wonder if you’d do me a favor, Eliot?”

“If I can.” He scooted to the edge of the sofa, hands tucked under his knees.

I printed the lyrics and played the demo, trying not to cringe at the voice butchering the melody. He was a hell of a quick study, already singing along to the second repeat of the chorus.

“That’s a pretty good song,” he said.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Did you write that?”

I nodded. “I could give you… a hundred bucks, if you’d be willing to take a crack at singing it.”

His jaw came unhinged again.  
I didn’t mention that I’d paid the rooster on the recording five times that.

“Sure, I mean…” Eliot shrugged. “If you want.”

That shrugging was killing me. “I really do.”

By the time I’d set him up with headphones and a mic, set levels and recorded an inspired pass of the first verse and chorus, he stopped to announce a bathroom break. I paused the track.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just really got to go.”

I pointed the way to the bathroom and, in his absence, tweaked the EQ.

When the kid returned to the room, his immaculate voice was blasting through the speakers. I didn’t turn to face him. Just reclined in my engineer’s chair, eyes closed, fingers clasped behind my head, ankles crossed beneath the console. Reveling in effortless magic.

“It’s weird hearing my voice through there,” he said.

I tapped the pause button and sat upright in my chair. “Do you have any idea how gifted you are?”

He shrugged, scratched his hair and let it fall over his eyes.

“Eliot,” I mumbled and shook my head. The name thing was just a little too weird. “Do you have a nickname or something?”

“My mom calls me Bobby. My middle name’s Robert, like her dad.”

“Well, you sound amazing, Bobby.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He’d just told me people called him Bobby. I was starting to think he pretty and talented, but maybe not the brightest bulb. Acknowledging his looks was a matter of scientific fact. Oliver had sired an attractive kid. Big surprise.

“You should call me Oliver.”

He couldn’t have shocked me harder with a taser. Eliot scratched his nose, watching for a reaction that was entirely under my skin. Wide sinking tension. I spun the chair and unnecessarily tweaked settings. He stood behind me, I assumed, studying what I was doing on the console. 

Eliot touched my shoulder and I glanced at the long, white fingers on my jacket. It was more intimate than our few hours of acquaintance warranted, but I tapped his hand twice: a fatherly, friendly gesture.

There was no further warning before his wet lips grazed my neck, hand sliding down my chest.

“Hey, whoa.” I leapt to my feet, heart hammering as if he’d pulled a gun.

Eliot froze, hands up, equally stunned. Both of us suspended in a scene from a twisted dream.

“Why’d you do that?”

His pink mouth hung open. “I thought you wanted me to.”

“Why would you think that?” I perched on the console to put more distance between us. “How did I give you that impression?”

“I’m sorry.” Eliot chewed his lip and gazed at the floorboards. “I thought that’s why—”

“No.” I rubbed my forehead. “Jesus.”

I replayed the entire evening in my head. My first mistake was calling him out of the hotel. I hadn’t stopped making them since.

“How old are you?” I asked, as if it mattered.

He answered without looking up, “Fifteen.”

“No. That’s not… You mean fourteen.”

“I know how old I am.”

The only way that was true was if Oliver’s wife was pregnant when he was in Italy. With me. I sat back in my chair and covered my mouth.

Eliot sank onto the sofa, staring at a speck at the wall as if he wished he could disappear. I’d been there. God knows I’d been exactly where he was. None of this was his fault.

“And how old am I?” I asked softly.

His unwillingness to answer indicated that he had no idea. I'd never felt older.

"Exactly," I said. "Not to mention…”

His lower lip trembled. The last thing I wanted was to make Oliver's son cry.

“Look, you’re... an attractive kid, but ... your dad’s my friend.”

The word tasted false.

“You’re too young, son.” That word was even worse. “No. You know what it is? Me. I’m too old. I’m the problem, okay?”

Eliot nodded, but still wouldn’t look up.

I wiped a hand down my face, let out a loud breath. I rubbed my neck, the spot where he’d kissed, and a strange fire licked at my dry throat. It flickered down my spine and settled where it was least welcome.

Alone with Oliver’s beautiful, eager child. It was someone’s idea of a sick joke. And my body’s reaction was unacceptable. After one long exhale, I turned and gripped the control board with both hands like I was being frisked.

I caught a glimpse of my watch.

“God damn it.”

It’s easy to lose time in the studio. That adage about having fun. Four hours had passed. It was nearly ten. I’d left my phone in the car. If Oliver had called, we’d missed it.

“I need to take you back now.”

“Don’t you want me to finish the song?” Eliot asked, timid and shrinking.

“No,” I answered too quickly and then added a fragile smile. “Thank you. That’s enough.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Twenty minutes drive and I’d be rid of this kid. If, by some curse, Oliver wasn’t at the set - had perhaps gone for drinks with the creative team - I’d leave the boy in the lobby and melt rubber. He was no longer welcome in my house.

Each second alone with him ticked by with roaring condemnation. I had created this situation. As the adult, I was responsible.

“Elio—”

“Shh,” I hissed with impatience my father had rarely shown, a controlled tone belying the gelid flow in my veins.

My fingers tapped idly on the wheel. I wound down all four windows and let the night smog overtake the loud odor of child sweat and hotel soap.

Fifteen minutes to the set. Then I could drive away and alleviate the strange thrumming in my skull.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.”

It was not okay. It was as far from okay as anything I’d ever experienced.  
Internally, I repeated every exchange, examining what I might have said or done wrong. I’d been fascinated by the boy, then astonished by his voice. But there were no stray glances or offhand touches. He’d misconstrued my interest.

It was simple confusion. Oliver would understand, and clear up the swirling chaos between me and his son. Even if they stayed in town another week or longer, I didn’t have to talk to Eliot again. I could avoid standing too close, and nix all eye contact. For God’s sweet sake, I’d never be alone with him again.

Did he always breathe this loudly? I nearly switched on the radio, but music had created this mess. I opted instead for pressing the blinking red button on my phone. Oliver’s voice filled the car:

“Hey, Elio. We’re wrapping up here. Ten, twenty minutes, yeah?”

By the fourth message, he was irritated. The tenser Oliver sounded, the tighter Eliot gripped the door handle.

“Where the hell are you with my son?”

Oliver had gotten a ride back to the hotel and discovered his room empty. Eliot’s chest heaved so fast I was afraid he’d hyperventilate.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s my fault.”

He clenched his teeth, but didn’t look at me, which was preferable.

In the hotel, the boy shuffled like a death row inmate down the velour carpeting. I resisted the urge to shout and hurry him. I also crushed the instinct to coordinate our stories. There was nothing more to discuss with him. I’d explain to Oliver about the studio and he’d understand. Maybe even find it funny.

Eliot stuffed his hands in his pockets and gazed back at the elevator. I knocked. At the last minute, he mumbled, “Are you going to tell him?”

Before I could reassure the kid or myself, the door flung wide.

“Where the fuck were you?”

Eliot stammered and lurched forward as Oliver yanked him into the room, then shifted his stance to block my view into the room. He glared down at me with such evident hatred that my carefully-worded explanation ducked behind my larynx.

Oliver's fists curled, shoulders hunched. A vision of masculinity and primal rage. I braced myself to witness and receive its release. I craved a visceral communion those hands. Violence would be better than the insipid, wet rag touches we’d exchanged so far. I held Oliver’s glaze and willed him to strike.

He reigned in his anger with a tight shake of his head.

“As you’ve already witnessed,” he said. “My son is prone to rash, ill-conceived decisions. I asked you to leave him in the room for a reason.”

“What did you tell him about me?”

My intended apology came out sideways and doubled-edged. Oliver winced, then sneered.

“This was a mistake.”

“What?”

“This town is nothing but loonies. That woman is certifiable. You know, she yelled at me?”

“I warned you, it can get intense.”

“This isn’t for me. And this…”

Oliver glanced over his shoulder and pointed to the bedroom until Eliot away. Rash and ill-conceived was accurate, but no kid deserved to be treated like a criminal.

“Oliver.”

“What did he... you know what? Never mind. Just…”

He started to close the door

“Hey, wait… I owe him…” I drew my wallet and offered all my cash: 40 bucks.

“What is this?”

“It’s what I’ve got.”

“Why the hell would you owe him money?”

Eliot had snuck back into the room so, I moved to give him the cash directly. Oliver’s wide, firm palm spread out over my suddenly thundering heart.

“I just… He did me a favor,” I stammered. “I’ll pay the rest tomor—“

“We won’t be here tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve already booked the flight.”

My guts boiled with instant panic. He couldn’t be serious. I’d jutted my neck out to vouch for him. And we hadn’t had a chance to talk, let alone fuck.

Then again, what was there to say?  
Why should I care if Oliver stayed or went, succeeded or failed in show business? I’d lived a perfect, Oliver-free existence for almost half my life. I’d offered him an opportunity. If he blew it, or was too sensitive to hack it, that wasn’t my problem. Not my responsibility. Just like Eliot’s miserable expression.  
Nothing to do with me.

I knocked Oliver’s hand away, hurting my wrist against his heavier bone. The whole thing had been a needless headache. To hell with them both.

Oliver shut the door. The deadbolt clicked. An elderly woman peered out of the adjoining room, wrinkled mouth puckered in distaste. I breezed down the hall, narrowly defeating the urge to flip her off.

***

I’d built a life of disappointments and successes entirely unrelated to Oliver. He could come or go. It altered nothing.

Yet, in the minutes before midnight, as I waited for a red light to change, his bitter bright eyes haunted me. The imprint of his hand still burned my chest. Those long, graceful fingers, not caressing or teasing. Holding me away.

What was he afraid of now?

Even before I called Oliver, I’d anticipated a limp-wristed airport end to our reunion. I’d braced for the impact of his departure, but he’d never fully arrived. He’d hovered, circling over the area, low and long enough to chew me down and spew out a nerveless pulp.

Like a trick candle with a flame that had lain dormant for 15 years only to spring back and burn the fool.

I called the agency from my car and met Yvgeny at the house.  
Twenty-two. Immaculately tanned. Former member of the Polish National Ballet with a body that shamed Oliver’s former glory.

Reflexology among his diverse talents, he knelt on the floor in front of my easy chair punishing my soles with sweet almond oil, intermittently sucking my big toe.  
“All your tension is right there, Elio” he spoke with a lilt that always went straight to my balls.

Yvgeny was perfection: hot as fuck and reasonably priced. I lay on my belly, groaning as he split me open, first with deliciously vicious fingers, then with that eight-inch prick. He pounded at a steady 110 beats per minute, as if his hips were set to a metronome.

“Harder.”

The more brutally he fucked, the less I felt. The bed croaked. Yv bounced on my back, grunted in my hair. Rivulets of his sweat slipped down my spine.

“Harder.”

I let him carry on until the noise grew tiresome.

“That’s enough.”

I remained on my stomach, moving only to point to his envelope on the dresser. He thanked me and went home, or to his next client, or wherever they go.

***

The following morning, I woke with a vibrant ache radiating from my ass, with tendrils tingling along my limbs, and blossoming into brambles in the core of my skull. I stood, stretched and my spine cracked like gunfire.

I’d fallen asleep naked. I limped downstairs to the kitchen naked for a breakfast of Little Debbie’s oatmeal creme pies with a splash of Jack Daniels.

At some point, Oliver and his son would board a flight. There might still have been time to call the hotel and initiate an adult conversation. Surely, he’d calmed overnight. I could offer them the olive branch of a ride to LAX, but would have sooner eaten the plastic packaging around my snack cake.

I raised a solitary toast to their bon voyage and emptied my glass. A very fond riddance to Oliver and son.

Only, I wasn’t rid of the son. He was behind the bar, grinning. Only a shimmer. I wasn’t drunk enough for hallucinations. He’d left the Chablis on the counter.  
This was why I rarely suffered guests. Strangers leave unpredictable echoes.

I couldn’t remember the last person who wasn’t in my home to provide a service: cleaning, painting, fucking. Technically, Eliot was there to sing for me, but I couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a personal element to the visit. I’d let him touch things.

I returned the bottle to its rightful location, but now an image of that kid was lodged in my head like a melody.

Was I drawn in by how he looked - like Oliver and me? Or because he sang like a siren? And what did I think was going to happen? The kid would be the Michael Jackson to my Berry Gordy?

I barked a laugh that reverberated off the glass and rang in my ears.  
Not for the first time, my house felt unbearably vacant. My chest, my life, everything I lived for was a hollow waste. It wasn’t an unfamiliar refrain.  
I even knew the cure.

After I’d drained that bottle of Chablis, I wandered into the foyer, crawled up the steps and slid down the bannister. Splinters were a chance I was willing to take. At first, my ass just squeaked pitifully, inching down the polished wood without gaining any speed. In the effort to increase momentum, I chafed my already pained behind and finally landed with a thud in the center of the cold, marble floor.

That little old lady from the commercial sprang to mind.  
“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up."

I lay there, laughing up at the chandelier until the epiphany dawned. What I needed to do was settle down.

***

For half a year, I’d avoided her like a terminal diagnosis.  
Anais Smith was an unlikely name for a Vietnamese girl raised by Long Island Jews. We’d met at the Tonys, had a few drinks. Our four-month dating stint was a personal record.

Anaïs was the girl who’d gifted me the Beethoven bust for my 31st birthday. I dodged her calls for a full six weeks before she took the hint.

Brilliant girl. Opera-trained. Fluent in English, French, Italian, German, and Russian. Always wished she’d learned Vietnamese, but never put in the effort. Never returned to the country. Somehow, she’d fallen in love with show tunes and was presently touring a one-woman Sondheim review. According to her publicist, she’d be in Europe for the next two weeks.

Likely, she was seeing someone else. More likely, she was no longer interested in ‘a manboy who didn’t know what he wanted.’ Those are the precise words her mother used to describe me.

My parents would’ve loved Anaïs. Given the choice, so would I.

Since she’d always admired my house and her presence would erase the traces of Eliot that still clung to the air, we planned to meet there. The afternoon of our date, I stood at the door to the parlor with a coffee mug, watching the maid vacuum.

Anais arrived at 6:57 with a bouquet of lilies for the dining room table. Charming, beautiful, cultured, elegant, funny, considerate as ever. She wore the same subtle, orchid perfume that hummed of summer. I kissed her cheek and invited her in.

I offered the Port I recalled was her favorite.

“_Sim, _por favor."

As I placed the goblet in her hand, she crossed her slender legs and asked, “So, what have you been working on, Elio Perlman?”

"_Suivez _moi_, mademoiselle_."

Her heels clicked along the hall tiles like castanets.

Anaïs was knowledgable and interested, so I led her down to the studio to preview a preliminary piano and strings arrangement of the theme music for Chris’ film. She closed her eyes and let me watch her listen.

There was no doubt that offspring produced with a woman of this caliber would be attractive and bright.

“It’s evocative, Elio,” she said. “Your melodies always are.”

I bowed my gratitude.

On a whim, I slipped in the DAT of Eliot’s song. “Tell me what you think of this?”

She sipped her wine, head tilted in consideration of the opening riff. As soon as he began to sing, her eyes widened. She furrowed her brow, but didn’t speak. When his verse and chorus were complete, I turned down the music.

“Who is this?” She asked.

“No one.”

“Well, it’s obviously not no one, Elio.”

“Just this kid I happened to hear.”

“That voice.”

I could have kissed her. The thrill of her intrigue was surprisingly sweet.

“Sounds young.”

“Fifteen.”

“The asshole.”

Anaïs smiled with playful envy. The talent pool grew younger every year, unlike the rest of us.

“What does he look like?” She asked. “A boy, right? Hard to tell with that timbre.”

“A boy…” I reached for a word that wouldn’t stick in my parched throat. “Handsome?”

I wished I’d brought down my own glass.

“Well, if you can get me some 3x5s and a three-song demo, I’ve got a friend in every A&R office. They’re always looking for the next big thing.”

“No, it’s not… It's not worth it.”

"What does that mean?"

I shook my head, unable and unwilling to articulate.

“You wanted to know what I think?” Her eyes were keen and dark. “The song is decent. The voice is … unique, fresh. Marketable.”

Money wasn’t an alluring argument. I had plenty of it and wasn’t in the business of pimping out young artists, although that was a thriving industry.

“And I know how it is when you get a boner for some new sound.” Anaïs laughed, easing back on the sofa and offering a generous view of her thigh. “God, I remember you tinkering with EQ until 4 in the morning. You still neurotic like that?”

I chuckled.

“I miss you, sometimes, you know.”

The sudden candor and affection were unexpected. The appropriate response was to repeat the sentiment or offer some other reciprocal endearment. But isn’t it better to be truthful? Why had I invited her? The idea of settling down, choosing one partner was anathema to me. In that way, I agreed whole-heartedly with Lionel in the desert.

Anaïs took another sip, swallowed her fondness, and said, “Why don’t you just cut a demo with the kid? See what happens?”

I scratched my head. At very least, she deserved an explanation.

“He lives on the east coast. His family are not in the business. This whole thing was a complete fluke.”

“Hm… Well, if you love the sound, I know this guy. Does the wickedest impressions. You should hear his Cher.”

She flashed the brilliant stage smile I’d always loved.

We had dinner and the obligatory sofa sex, after which I casually invented a meeting the next morning. Anaïs, practically perfect in every way, understood her cue and left.

***

Her mimic was indisputably talented. He did a convincing Kermit the frog, Bart Simpson, Presidents Reagan and Clinton. The skill did carry over into singing. Technically, he could sound like Eliot without producing the same emotional effect.

Words failed to explain what was missing. “Just not quite the same, is it?”

“Well, it’s never the same,” he admitted. “You’ve got to let go of the sameness and embrace the essence of what you’re looking for.”

Eight hours and two thousand dollars later, I had a recording of the essence that I absolutely hated. I paid the guy and I erased the DATs of our session.

***

I’d followed Oliver across an ocean because of a bone-piercing, unshakable urgency. This new tugging was the same, yet utterly distinct. Oliver’s kid didn’t keep me awake and enter my mind at all hours of the day. His voice did. I ached for that voice to record my songs, to archive them, and be done with it.

One week in the studio. If I didn’t at least try, the failure would hound me.

Of course, the boy who accompanied the voice was the last person I wanted to work with. He was also the only choice, the correct instrument, to convey these songs.

Then, there was Oliver. Whatever we had the summer of ’83 had soured and was no longer fit for consumption. But I should have stated my case in that hotel. If he didn’t want me working with his kid, there were still ways to get this done. It was time to stop being a coward.

***

I drank only enough to help me dial, not enough to slur. 

“Heisenbergs.”

“Hello, ma’am,” I cleared a clump of wet sand from my throat. “My name is Elio Perl—”

“Ollie!”

“No. Mrs. Heisenberg, actually … I wanted to speak with you…Hello? ... Hello?”


	10. Chapter 10

On a blistering Sunday in July, the Heisenbergs arrived fifty minutes late, as if I wasn’t paying hourly to rent the studio.I held an impassive expression despite the gentle surge of anticipation as their late 80’s Honda station wagon pulled into the space beside my sporty rental:the only two vehicles in the lot.

Airshow Production was fewer than ten miles from their Chestnut Hillhome and more than adequate to complete the demo. I’d already recorded the bulk of the instrumentation in LA. All we needed was to lay down Eliot’s vocal tracks. Four days of focused work should do. I’d booked five.

Contract Bullet 5. An additional adult must be present at all times during the recording.

My lawyer assured me it was protocol, and wise, to insist on a chaperone whenever working with a minor.

I’d also stipulated that Eliot practice singing at least an hour each day. I’d paid for him to have his range tested by a vocal coach and forbidden him to take lessons. Those tips came from Anaïs who explained that a well-meaning professional would steer his talent toward Broadway or operatic singing, when what I wanted was the raw, untouched purity he already possessed.

Gail Heisenberg signed without stating qualms, at least she didn’t request any change. I’d encouraged her to seek legal counsel before making a decision, so we would all be clear this was strictly business. Oliver was not involved in any of the preliminary conversations. His signature wasn’t on the contract. We hadn’t spoken since the hallway at the Ritz, four months prior. He wasn’t in that car.

I dropped and crushed my cigarette underfoot, watching the wide-hipped, bass-lipped woman corral her two young boys out of the backseat. Oliver’s wife was shorter, rounder and older than I’d remembered. A head smaller than me, with grey streaks snaking through frizzy hair, she appeared at least a decade his senior. If she was, indeed, over 50,I was disinclined to ask. She wore a Boston College t-shirt over fading jeans, frumpy with a pleasant sturdiness.

The old woman on an excursion from her shoe, she shouted at her boys and shifted a bulky bag onto her shoulder. Husky as she was, Oliver’s wife wasn’t nearly as hard on the eyes as I recalled. She greeted me with an inscrutable Mona Lisa grin.

“A pleasure,” I said and didn’t mention that I’d attended her wedding.

We hadn’t met and she wouldn’t have remembered. Nor did I ask about Oliver. All Gail’s easy goodwill would wither on the vine if she knew what pleasure was. The things I’d done to her husband. The things he’d done to me. How often his hard cock had been in the hand she was heartily shaking.

Eliot finally climbed out of the passenger seat, clutching a blue folder to his chest. It contained lyric sheets and a CD of the demos with and without vocals for practice. I’d sent it UPS priority. Eliot held his ground beside the car, as if he was afraid to approach.

Had he been that huge before? I recalled him at my height. He still didn’t tower like Oliver, but I’d need to see them side by side to appreciate the difference. At this rate, he’d overtake his dad in no time.

The kid raised his hand like he was swearing an oath. I nodded a greeting, careful not to meet his eyes - no lingering contact. Still, a soft familiarity swelled in my chest.

I turned and held the door for Gail and her underlings.

“Please. Make yourselves comfortable,” I said,(thinking “scarce“) and. pointing to a six-pack of pineapple Shasta and an assortment of chips.

The room filled with the crackle of bags, crunching, and that aluminum sigh of relief of an opening can. The control room walls were painted red. Behind the engineer’s console, a plush, black leather couch spanned the length of the wall. There were a few instruments on stands: an acoustic guitar, an electric, a bass. A small table in the corner housed a coffee machine and the snacks I’d brought. It was no romper room.

“Carlos, Obie say hello.”

I’d expected more than the cursory grunts from Oliver’s children. Etiquette was never optional in my parents’ household. The boys sank into the cushions on either side of their mother, munching and slurping their snacks. Gail raised an exasperated brow and explained their poor manners with one word: “Summer.”

“Hm.”

The little one was, perhaps, eight, with Oliver’s features. The ten (or so) year old, had his mother’s stocky build, unruly mane and shrewd, dark eyes. Neither of them was as striking as their older brother.

“Four hours?” Gail confirmed for the third time.

The schedule was outlined in the contract. There would be no surprises.

“I think we’ll get a lot done,” I said.

It was a scorcher and the quarters were close. I’d waited until their arrival to cut the A/C. It would take a few minutes for the machine to stop humming.

In the meantime, I lead Eliot to the vocal booth, which was a repurposed closet. A more seasoned vocalist would have waited in the hallway while I adjusted the microphone stand. I’d set it up for my height, like Eliot had been the last time I saw him.I ignored the rise in temperature as he squeezed into the tiny space behind me. His breath was loud, fast and far too close. He was using a different soap.

“How’ve you been?” I asked without facing him, simply to break the silence.

He squeaked, “Okay.”

My internal thermostat switched to an instant freeze. I’d been warned that his voice might still change, although by 16 there ought to have been some stability. Everything was riding on this boy’s voice.

Eliot leaned closer and inhaled. I flushed. The hairs on my nape stiffened. Goosebumps cropped out along my spine and arms. I turned to face him and he shrunk back against the wall.

“Sorry.”

I could lecture, or call his mother, but the wrong move would put an end to the project. A glance through the glass revealed Gail reading and the little monkeys investigating the control board.

“Hey, guys!” I shouted. “Don’t do that. Please.”

Gail yanked them both back onto the sofa by the seat of their shorts. I stepped into the hall, rolling my shoulders to reestablish some equilibrium. 

“See if that’s a good height.”

Eliot nodded. I forced a smile.

“If you need anything,” I said. “You just speak right into the mic.”

He gnawed the corner of his lip, and I shut the sound booth door. We’d soon find out if he was claustrophobic.

Back behind the console, we checked the levels in his headphones.

“Eliot, you hear me?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Let’s just take it from the top.”

I cued the track and let him go for it. From the first note, all my internal dialogue about the insanity of this plan fell silent.

Eliot’s little brothers even listened for about thirty seconds. They read peacefully for another six minutes. First one, then the other, popped up at my elbows and began toying with faders.

“Hey, whoa! Guys, you can’t do that.”

“Boys,” their mother interjected.

They were a vivid reminder of why I never wanted children. Sticky, snotty, forever touching things.

Gail apologized and mentioned a playground at a church up the street.

“If Bobby needs anything, it’s right up the road.”

It took me a moment to recall that she addressed Eliot by that name.

We'd signed an agreement that specifically stated she would not leave me alone with her son. I faked a smile, suppressing the storm of panic in my gut. There was no inconspicuous way to beg her to stay. Besides, we’d get a lot more done if the boys were otherwise occupied.

“Can he hear me?” Gail asked, leaning over the console, waving at her oldest son.

I eased out of her way and pressed the monitor button. “Go ahead.”

“Bobby, the boys are anxious. We’ll be right up the street. Less than a mile.”

In case he needed to run away from me. Ha. She collected her belongings and ushered her Wild Things out of the door. 

Eliot sang one beautiful take. Then, he slipped into the control room. “Can I hear what we have so far?”

He could have listened through the headphones and spared me a great deal of intestinal discomfort, but I nodded at the sofa. He remained standing at the door.

“Eliot, have a seat.”

“Call me Oliver.”

“No. Sit down.”

He took a single step toward me.

“I swear to God, I’ll call this off.”

His steps faltered and he finally slumped onto the couch like a deflating balloon. A shiver ghosted over me. This kid was burrowing under my skin.

I could count on two fingers the close encounters I’d had with people under the age of 20 since I was one. On both occasions, some film producer was trying to convince me to teach their child or grandchild. They even used the argument that Mozart gave lessons, at which point I reminded them that Amadeus only did so out of financial necessity. I had no such concern and less interest in working with children, and young people, and amateurs, in general.

I was going against my better judgement with Eliot, and his behavior eclipsed my worst fears.

“Can we work?”

“Yeah,” he nodded to his feet. “Sorry.”

I played back the track, pointed out the passages I loved, and made a few minor suggestions. Intonation, phrasing. He made notes and nailed them on the second take. I had him do a few more takes to have options.

We finished the first song in the three hours. I dropped the kid at the church playground where his brothers and other hellions ran about like Energizer rabbits. I waved from my car and Oliver’s wife shouted out, “Mr. Perlman. Would you care to join us for dinner?”

“Oh, no. I’ve got, uh… I’ve got plans,” I said. “But thank you.”

***

My plans consisted of laying in my big, brass hotel bed beating off. With that task complete, I cleaned up with a lotion-soft Kleenex, drank a little more top-shelf whiskey, and took another bite from my7-11 chili dog.

I kept CNN muted and righted my headphones. They were rebuilding Kosovo to a soundtrack of Mingus’ Blues and Roots.

I lit another smoke, careful not to ash on the satin pillows in my gilded dungeon. It was a beautifully furnished, spacious suite and I yearned to be anywhere else. With anyone other than me.

The thought of picking someone up at a club made me want to vomit, although, that could have been an aftershock from the hotdog.

I’d often felt like shit in LA, but refused to admit to myself that the cause might be as simple as loneliness. I blamed fatigue, exhaustion, boredom, ennui. There was no one else to hear the nonsense. Lying in that hotel, I’d turned inside out, with all the soft bits on the surface and the abrasive air scouring me raw.

I left the room with no plan. With the rental car keys dangling from my hand. Maybe I thought I’d go to the studio and work. It’s how I treated insomnia at home.

If I dressed, I have no recollection of doing so.

“Sir?”

The concierge was twenty-something and concerned. I smiled and waved to calm her, staggered through the automatic doors and leaned against the pillars while the world failed to right itself.

I chose my destination the first time I saw the bright beckoning of a gas station, like a lighthouse in a storm. I asked for instructions to 1220 Stone Avenue,address on the envelope from Gail Heisenberg.

Even once I knew where I was going, I traveled without a mission. The neighborhood, like the rest of the village of Chestnut Hill, was shrouded in foliage, houses well-hidden behind shrubs and saplings. I cruised by slowly, craning to count the lighted windows. Three rooms. Who was still awake at this hour? 11:37 PM.

Papa always stopped work by 6 to spend the evening with us. The little ones must be asleep. Was Oliver with his Gail and Eliot, playing cards? Were they curled up on the sofa reading together? Or was he behind one of the darkened, upstairs windows, making love to his wife?

I circled the block and passed the house twice, maybe four times before nature forced me to pull over at the end of Stone Avenue. Rather than remain hidden by my rental, the Cognac compelled me to tiptoe through the shadows on the lamp-lit street and unleash my bladder’s hot, stinking contents on Heisenberg hydrangeas.

*******

The next morning, I arrived with a well-deserved migraine. The studio was sweltering because I’d forgotten to turn back on the air and it was 90 degrees overnight. Luckily, none of the equipment was damaged, but I called Gail and asked for an hour to cool the place. No point in them coming in to melt. It was also an opportunity for me to lie, facedown, on the sofa repenting the previous night’s foolishness.

I needed to drink less. I’d cut back as soon as I got home.

Oliver was conspicuously absent on that day, as well. It was a shame, because if he could hear what we were creating, he’d stop being an asshole about it.

It occurred to me to casually ask whether he might join us, but the last thing I wanted was to talk about him with her. It was a speak or die crisis of a different sort. This time, I didn’t want to expose to Oliver’s wife how I was dying to see him, to know his life, to repair whatever I’d done wrong in LA. I could admit to myself, but not her, that desire might be the true reason I was in Massachusetts. I’d only ever come to the state in pursuit of Oliver.

On the other hand, his presence would have been a nerve-wracking distraction only slightly more unsettling than his willful insistence on staying away.

I’d been sure that he’d show up peeved and outraged, cheeks flushed with restrained anger. Beautiful and fierce as he’d been at the Ritz. Then, I’d calmly say, “Just listen.”

Eliot churned out a decent first take. I delivered my notes as tactfully as possible. Who hasn’t seen divas curl into their shells after one criticism. Not that the kid was a diva, but one could never be sure until it was too late. 

While he sang another take, I glanced over my shoulder at his mother. Thankfully, Thing 1 and Thing 2 were in camp. Gail brought the same huge bag and sat quietly on the sofa. I’d been concerned that she’d inquire about the process and slow me down, like most people who’ve never been in a studio. But she didn’t seem terribly interested in what we were doing, which only made me curious about what she was doing.

What would she say if I simply asked, ‘So, how’s Oliver?’

Gail Heisenberg looked like the sort of woman who’d bring knitting to pass the time. Instead, she’d pulled on thick reading glasses and was fastidiously scribbling notes on a legal pad. Another book lay open on her lap.

“How’s your Greek, Mr. Perlman?” she asked without looking up.

“Um.” I hadn’t expected the question. Didn’t realize she’d caught me peeking. “Rusty. I’m sure.”

Gail responded with a quick phrase that proved how much rust had accumulated on my cognition of the language. After all the care and time he took to teach me, my father would have been scandalized.

“You don’t use it, you lose it.”

When she spoke in English, I understood. That’s what she’d said.

_Αν δε το χρησιμοποιείς, το χάνεις_

_An den to chrisimopoiísete chánete_

“Mm... So, are you translating?” I asked.

“Mmhm.”

“For ….?”

It couldn’t be for her father’s easily-gained approval.

“For publication.”

“Ah.”

I’d done some translation. French to Italian. Italian to English. It paid well. Just a few commissions had allowed me to buy my bicycle and a far superior guitar.

I smiled and nodded at the unlikely connection. We hadn’t discovered ourselves distant cousins, but the burning hostility I’d held against this woman, without knowing her, was dissolving. It was like dropping a lump of red coal to share a commonality. Beyond the other, unspoken one.

I turned back to my work as Gail Heisenberg folded the book over her lap.“I haven’t yet thanked you for your generosity, Mr. Perlman.”

“Well, don’t think of it as charity,” I said over my shoulder. “It may not look like it, but your son is working very hard.”

“I do understand that you’re paying above the going rate in Los Angelos.”

I hadn’t intended her to know that. I’d merely offered a rate no one could reasonably refuse.

I set Eliot up for another take and turned in the chair to face his mother. There wasn’t a woman her age in LA who would leave the house without makeup. Most of them had already invested heavily in corrective surgeries. Many looked more like lizards than people. They often compensated for their strange looks with youthful colors and next year’s fashion. My own mother was always well-dressed, but never pretentious.

Gail Heisenberg might not own a stick of lip gloss. She dressed in varying hues of brown and grey. She was the most real person I’d met in ages.

“I have a cousin in Nashville,” she explained. “His lawyer was satisfied with the contract. Said the terms were reasonable and remarkably generous. I wanted to thank you for that.”

I nodded. “Your son has a unique gift.”

She inhaled deeply before asking, “What do you think it is, Mr Perlman?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Gail performed her Mona Lisa impression. “It’s not your fault, is it? He’s as easy to love as he is difficult to know.”

I wasn’t sure who she was talking about but my pulse was rapidly increasing.

“You know what he wrote, in his letters back then? That you were an antiquity,” she huffed a laugh. “The Parisienne had breasts like melons, which I found shamefully unpoetic. The Dutchman was flighty but a great fuck. And the Italian was an antiquity.”

She smiled in fond remembrance. My temperature skyrocketed. The Italian? That’s what Oliver called me?

“Oh, I had my dalliances, as well. Mostly with women. Ollie and I were never what you’d call serious until I got the diagnosis.” Gail chuckled. “Bobby would die if he knew I said that. Such a sensitive boy.

Oliver assumed the child was his, which, incidentally it was. He begged and begged me to marry him. To let him do the right thing. So, I said he should go away. Spend the summer in Europe. Grow up a little. I promised to think about it, though what I was really thinking about was an abortion. He’d come home, I’d say I’d lost it. That would be that. No more of this nonsense about getting married.

But I was 36, you know? And my mother…God.”

The molten flow in my veins was cooling into lead. I couldn’t have moved if my hair caught fire. Even breathing was difficult. Why in God’s name was this woman telling me all this?

“You were never married, were you, Mr. Perlman?”

By some miracle, I dragged my head back and forth.

“It’s a strange arrangement,” she said. “I’d always been so staunchly against it until Ollie returned. Different somehow. Not just wiser, but distant. As if he’d left part of himself…I suppose a more attentive woman might have known then. 

It must have been the pregnancy hormones that made it feel so urgent, all of a sudden, to rope him down. Secure our little family. You know?”

I knew only that if she kept speaking I’d combust.

“The child came and amazingly, I adored him. I’d been worried about that, you know. I’d never planned on them. Children. Tenure? Publication? Yes. Not Oliver Heisenberg and his ten-lbs sons.”

Gail’s laugh was startlingly warm and low.

“Then, there you were. At my wedding. An antiquity. A marble statue with my little boy’s name.”

My face flushed brighter, as if I’d chosen the name. 

“Il Italiano,” she said, voice carrying bitterness for the first time. “It was a cruel way to learn. I could have borne it better if he’d just told me.”

She studied a framed gold record on the wall.

For a moment, I was afraid she might cry. What the hell would I do if Eliot came into the room and discovered I’d reduced his mother to tears? But Gail took a steadying breath and began to rummage in her massive purse. I wondered whether she’d produce a tissue or a gun.

“Before I forget. I thought you might like to have this.”

She handed me an envelope which I accepted between thumb and forefinger as if the paper would disintegrate in flames and destroy me with it.

“I often thought of burning it, but hiding it behind the others seemed more poetic. Appropriate, you know?”

I nodded as if I had any idea.

“The rabbi advised otherwise, but I made him leave. I refused to be a party to Oliver’s unhappiness, and I refused to look at him every day, wondering if he was thinking of you.

I never needed him in the first place, so I told him to go. Carrying around bitterness is how people get ulcers, Mr. Perlman. I was never angry with Ollie. Just disappointed. By the time we got back together, he promised it was out of his system. That you were.”

It was abundantly clear that I was past tense for Oliver. Just like he’d been for me until Chris’ stupid film made me poke around in the ashes.

“Twelve years. And here you are again,” Gail said. “I didn’t actually expect he’d return from California. Then Bobby pulled that stunt…”

She sighed.

My attempt to speak fell out as a dusty choked breath.

“How was that?” Eliot’s voice rung through the speaker stinging my singed ears.

The track was finished. I hadn’t heard a note. My skin ached as if I’d been submerged in boiling water.

“Hello?”

I pressed the button that allowed him to hear in the control room. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s … uh… let’s listen back.”

I shook my swirling head clear and forced myself to focus. Gail had returned to her work as if I’d imagined the conversation.

Eliot’s entire take sounded strained, though it might have been my buzzing brain on the verge of cracking.

On a second listen, it became clear that his voice was fatigued. He was singing flat in places, struggling for breath in others. Technically, he wasn’t performing as well as I knew he was able. We’d overdone it the first day, and he was still an amateur.

“Why don’t you come in here?”

Eliot entered the room with an almost comical frown. “Was it that bad?”

“It’s fantastic. You’re not used to singing this much,” I said. “We’ll take tomorrow off. I’ll do some mixing.”

He glanced at his mother, hung his head, hiding behind his curls.

“Eliot.”

Under other circumstances, with a different kid, in an alternate universe, I might have stood and taken hold of his shoulders like a baseball coach. I remained rooted to my chair and directed my instruction to his left shoulder.

“Look. We don’t have to do this at all, if you—“

“No, I want to! I just want to do it right,” he said. “I want you to like it.”

He had his mother’s wide, pouty mouth. The shape of his father’s eyes, but with that startling grey. When Eliot licked his lips, I wondered whether it would be the same as Oliver or much different to kiss him.

I spun in my chair, facing my controls.

_ What the fuck? _

Thank God, I’d only contracted with these people for five days. Much longer than and the whole family would be my death.

Eliot’s chin was digging into his chest. His shoulders folded in. His impending tears were either contagious or standard-issue from the tiny part of my brain that had already processed Gail’s verbal deluge.

To distract us both, I chose an acoustic guitar from its stand and taught him to play an Eminor chord. He caught on incredibly quickly and added a few innovations to the strum pattern I suggested. We added an Aminor chord to his lesson and in five minutes, the kid was already practicing transitioning between the two.

Technically, the instruments weren’t mine to loan, but I trusted the kid to bring it back in one piece. If necessary, I’d replace it.

I was stunned by and hastily declined Gail’s invitation to dinner. The last thing I wanted was to sit around with Oliver’s nuclear family, faking smiles and eating meatloaf, feeling like the imposter who’d nearly (but not quite) wrecked their marital bliss. Wasn’t that what he was saying? I wasn’t even sure I’d understood half of it. Might as well have been more Greek.

After a few hours of tweaking the recordings, I retreated to the hotel. So it wouldn’t go to waste, I let the rest of my Cognac wash down Taco Bell chalupas.

I fell asleep thinking about that look on Gail’s face when she was staring at that gold record. That lost, hurt, abandoned expression that echoed how I felt when Oliver called to announce his engagement.

Around 2AM, when I got up to piss, in the hotel toilet, Gail’s envelope reentered my brain.

I stood in the middle of the floor debating whether to go down and search in the car. I certainly wasn’t going to ask her to replace it or tell me what was inside. I also wasn’t going to be able to sleep, regardless. Wondering might keep me awake for the rest of time. That and random thoughts of Eliot, convinced me I'd lost my mind.

***

I’d given the kid the next day off, but still had the studio to myself. So, around noon, I drove over to play a little piano. The envelope was resting on the console. Inside was a photograph.

I was 18 years old and so skinny, nestled close to Oliver. Both of us dashing in our suits. His arm around my waist. He held a tumbler between his thumb and long, ringed finger. I gazed up at him like he was spun from gold while he puffed cigar smoke at the camera. In another universe, in a distant galaxy, in an impossible reality, it could have been a photo from our wedding. Oliver’s and mine.

[ ](https://imgur.com/1IWIoFI)


	11. Chapter 11

Since we weren’t recording on Tuesday, I spent the day trying to unravel Gail’s babble. A century wouldn’t be enough time to unpack all she’d said. What I thought I understood was:  
She’d known about me all along. Even while Oliver and I were together. Maybe before.  
It felt incredibly cheap to be on a list with his other European trysts, referred to by a nationality, but it did put the affair into perspective.

Then, they’d named the boy after me. Or Oliver had, and Gail only realized at the wedding.

Didn’t she suggest that they’d split up for a while? Which meant Oliver was free but hadn’t come for me.

Then, there was the photograph from the wedding and Gail’s cryptic well wishes.  
Did she want, or expect us to be together?  
Was Oliver waiting for me to go to him? The thought electrified, then chilled my core.

His home was twelve miles from where I’d slept all week, yet the moon or the bottom of the ocean couldn’t have been further. I lay weighted to my hotel bed by a dark, swirling uncertainty melted from years of precious sorrow. Sadness, like cooled, solid lead is easier to carry than its liquid form. Cold grief comes in accepting the thing is dead. When your love might still be languishing somewhere, awaiting liberation, the twisted agony of hope is unbearable. Whether she knew it or not, Gail’s gift was crueler than if she’d spat in my face.

Why was it always my task to divide the distance between me and Oliver? My heart dangling in cold space hoping he’d meet me there. I was always chasing. It’s how we’d begin, and ended, and I couldn’t do it again. Why should I? When would he suffer the humiliation of putting himself out there?

My head ached and spun until I reached an executive decision to end the day as I often did at home: by drinking myself to sleep.

***

Recording on Wednesday went smoothly. Gail sat quietly in her corner and said only, “Good morning, Mr. Perlman,” and “Goodbye.” Praise Zeus.

Eliot remembered to return the studio guitar and when the session was done, he played a song he’d composed using his two chords. I spent the entire 90-second performance ignoring the chorus, which he repeated three times.

_Why won’t you see me?_  
_ Why won’t you kiss me?_  
_ Why won’t you touch me?_  
_ Why don’t you want me?_  
_ Like I_  
_ I really want you._

The kid might win a Grammy someday, but he wouldn't be getting any awards for subtlety.

“You were supposed to be on vocal rest,” I said, swallowing thick agitation.

“What do you think of it?”

“It’s catchy, Eliot.”

Gail was either engrossed in her translation work or pretending to ignore us.

“I do think you’d be better off resolving to G major in the end,” I said and showed him how to play the chord.

Eliot’s song made me consider how much of Oliver Gail must hear dripping from my lyrics. He was in every song with one exception. The refrain was simply:

_How your love leaves me_  
_ Black and blue_

Anaïs said it sounded like an ode to domestic abuse. Initially, I wrote it for Connor Riga. Then I realized it was an apt comparison of how he abused my body and how Oliver misused my heart.

Of the demo songs, my favorite was Phantom.

_I still feel you_  
_Almost like you’re here_  
_I still hear you_  
_Breathing in my ear_

The melody, inspired by Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor, poured out, along with a half-gallon of tears, the day after Oliver left me in Italy.

If Gail heard my erstwhile longing for her husband in the lyrics, she graciously spared the commentary.

Incidentally, the most recent song was written when I was 24: seven years after Oliver’s departure, and seven years prior to our recording session.

Songs are time capsules. They preserve love and anguish for others to relive over and over, as often as they’re willing to suffer. Songwriting is like operating a pressure cooker. Each one had relieved some of the pain in a final, hot burst of steam.

Listening to Oliver’s songs on repeat, with his wife and interpreted by their son, made the memories that inspired them surreal. Someone else’s soundtrack, as if 17-year-old Elio Perlman had commissioned me to score the film of his life. I’d read the treatment, studied the storyboard and the scenes. I knew the characters intimately.  
These songs were for and by that kid who’d once been me, but never would again. Maybe that’s why they sounded so true on that young, vulnerable voice.

***

Thursday, Eliot arrived half-hour late, alone, in a cab.

“My mother left a message at the hotel,” he said. “My brother, Obie fell, at camp, off a roof.”

“God, is he okay?”

“They had to take him to the emergency room.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

The cab had already left. I could drive Eliot to the hospital to be with his family.

“She said she’ll pick me up after.”

My jaw unhinged but no sound escaped. It was unlikely that the studio was available after that day. Weekends book up quickly. If he didn’t stay, we’d lose the day of recording. The idea of forfeiting the time was physically painful. On the other hand, if he stayed…

“I won’t get in the way,” Eliot said. “I promise.”

I squashed my cigarette and held the door open, low-grade stress fever already breaking out beneath my skin.

He was distressingly well-behaved. Didn’t so much as enter the control room without a direct invitation.

“Would you like to come in and give a listen?”

“Is that okay?”

He might have been toying with me. I wasn’t sure.

“Yes, you may.”

Eliot bounced into the command room and poured himself a mug of the Throat Coat tea, I’d brewed and brought.

“That was a beautiful take,” I said to the room, specifically not addressing him.

He smiled and sat, crossing one leg over the other, dropping his chin onto his fist and his elbow on his knee.

His mistakes were so trivial, I almost didn’t point them out. He was so near perfect that correcting risked more harm than help. But he was also dedicated to the project and aware how much I treasured his work and talent. I wasn’t criticizing for its own sake.

“There’s one more spot I want you to take a look at,” I plucked the guitar from its stand. “You’ve nailed the A and B sections, but there’s this moment in the bridge where I’m listening for the 6th interval on that one line. ‘Why’d you have to go?’ You know what I mean?”

Eliot grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I don’t know what you mean 6th interval?”

Western music theory is not as inscrutable as it might appear. Everyone already knows the major scale. Eliot sang Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do. I played the interval I was looking for: Do to La. He echoed it.

“Exactly. You’ve been singing a fifth, and it’s nice, but the 6th emphasizes the lyric. Try it again for me.”

Eliot sang the line with the sixth as if he’d been doing it all along.

“Perfect.”

He smiled, and I held my hand up for a high five. That was the harmless type of encouragement I should have given him all along. Working with kids takes some adjustment.

“Want to give it another take? And this time, on the chorus, could you sing ‘Maybe’ instead of ‘Baby’? I think I’d prefer it that way.”

“Sure.”

He hopped from the sofa humming the 6th.

The next time Eliot returned to the control room, he pretzel-folded himself into a corner of the sofa, chewing a nail. I glanced back at him once. Those clear eyes were burning a hole in the back of my shirt.

I spoke without turning around, “You need to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” How to say it? I sighed and sought the right words. “You do understand that what’s between us is professional, Elio. Eliot.”

A mischievous smile played at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d planned the similarity of our names to trap me in a blunder.

“Eliot,” I repeated the correction, but the damage was done.

He snickered into his fist.

“Shut up,” I said. “What do you want for lunch?”

He raised a brow. “Are we done?”

“Finito.”

“No way.”

“Way,” I said. “I’ll lay down an electric guitar track on Phantom. Mixing, mastering. That’s it.”

“So, we’re celebrating, right? It should be really good food.”

“Within reason.” I nodded. “But yeah?”

“Awesome.” He rubbed his hands together clearly already mentally placing his order.

Before we left, I insisted Eliot called home. He didn’t reach anyone and I assumed he was in my care for the remaining three hours of the scheduled session.

At the time, I was skeptical, but hoagies from Smokestack Urban Barbecue turned out to be worth the fifty-five-minute trek to Worcester. Like a hound howling with sirens, the boy sang along to the radio the entire drive. I remained silent, trying not to let the smile crack my face.

Eliot directed our party to Nichols Reservoir where we found a secluded picnic bench and toasted our success with styrofoam cups of Dr. Pepper. He immediately launched into eating with the dedication I’d witnessed in LA. I watched in amusement for a moment before sinking into my first bite of Philly Cheesesteak.

“Holy hell,” I said even before I’d begun to chew.

“Told you.”

I’d expected a good sandwich, but this was an orgasmic culinary experience. A distinctly American blend of flavors that somehow reminded me of Mafalda’s creamed beef. Tears might have come to my eyes.

Eliot’s sandwich didn’t survive for five minutes. He slurped down his drink and darted away like a puppy let off a leash. Since I actually chewed my food, I finished half the sandwich, wrapped what remained and tossed our trash before strolling in the direction he’d gone.

I followed the path, half expecting this goofy kid to leap from behind a boulder and startle me. A few times, I stopped to admire the view of the thick line of trees across the tranquil, dark water. I considered calling out but opted not to shatter the serenity.

When I began to worry and paused to search in every direction, an acorn fell on my shoulder. Then another on my head. Two more pelted me in the back.

I looked up and found the boy way up in a knotty old oak, outgrinning the Cheshire cat.

“Come up,” he said and tossed another nut.

I dodged. “You want me to die.”

“Come on. You can climb a tree.”

I was not a tree-climbing child. To Anchise’s grave disappointment, I practiced my instruments and I read (often outdoors). Once, I’d explained to his wrinkled and incredulous face that eons ago, our ancestors descended from the trees and invented the ladder. It would be disrespectful of evolution to climb a tree.

Thirty-four didn’t seem like the age to revise that worldview.

“Come up, Elio.”

“You come down.”

Eliot slipped down with primal grace and landed on his ass, at my feet. I helped him stand and he dusted off his jeans.

“You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Nah.” He walked backwards. “My granddad used to bring us out here. When I was really little. To fish and stuff.”

Eliot excavated a palm-sized rock from the dirt and made it dance across the water.

Since we were sharing intimate information, I confessed, “I’ve never been fishing.”

He squinted as if I was ten miles away. “Really?”

I shook my head. This was the first time it ever seemed a loss.

“I’ll have to take you some time,” Eliot said and flitted off down the mowed path.

I chuckled to myself and shook my head, warmed by far more than the high noon sun

***

When we returned to the studio, there was still no answer at Elio’s home phone. Neither of his parents owned a mobile. I suggested driving him to the hospital.

“Can’t I just stay? See how you do it with the guitar?”

It was a reasonable suggestion and his behavior had been impeccable. I trudged into the big room to set up the DI with Eliot riding my heels like a fresh-hatched duckling.

Steve, the guitar man, grinned. “That’s you singing, isn’t it?”

Eliot nodded.

“Got some serious pipes, young man.”

“Thanks.”

Steve turned to me as he tuned. “Cool, you doing this project with your kid.”

I didn’t correct him. A true professional, he knocked out the part in a little over an hour. Still no word from Gail.

“You want to try to reach your dad.”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Eliot scratched his neck. “He kind of hates this.”

That disappointed but didn’t surprise me.

“Has he never heard you sing?”

Eliot shrugged. My impression of Oliver as a cold and distant father was solidifying into fact.  
Perhaps his own dad was to blame, but I couldn’t know. He’d only mentioned the man once. I’d had the best father on earth, and hadn’t heard his voice in months.

“Yeah, well.” I cleared my throat, squashing a wave of emotion. “You know how I feel about your voice.”

Eliot’s mouth tilted as if he was testtasting ideas, deciding whether to swallow. Once the idea landed in his belly, he lacked the decency or bashfulness to lower his eyes. “Just my voice?”

My chuckle was an attempt at relieving the tension. “You’re not too bad either, kid.”

When he stepped closer, I could only have shoved him away or closed my arms around his shoulders. No harm in a friendly, warm, if somewhat extended, hug. Why not? Recording can be something of an ordeal. I didn’t know about the kid, but it had been ages since I celebrated with an embrace.

Because of his height, my face pressed to his warm neck, granting an undesired trace of sweat and a faded cologne. Eliot’s arms fastened around my waist, gripping the back of my shirt. His eyes burrowed in my shoulder, swiftly dampening the fabric.

I patted his back a few times and gave a gentle push. He backed away, drying his cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry.”

I turned to the console to give him a private moment to compose himself. Eliot curled an arm around mine and nudged him aside. It had gone far enough.

“Why didn’t you to tell that guitar guy I’m not your kid?”

His words surprised me less than my own internal reaction to them. I was stunned speechless as if in the aftermath of a sharp slap.

“A kid shouldn’t be in love with his dad.”

A mine detonated in my chest. “Can you not say things like that, please?”

He apologized and retreated to the sofa.

“You’re not in love with me, Eliot.”

“How do you know?”

“Because…” I was going to say that I’d been in love. That love doesn’t happen in five days. That he was too young to know what he was talking about. I simply wiped my mouth and said, “Just don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.” He looked at me. “Sorry. I…” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Forget it.” I sighed, emptying my lungs, rubbing a groove into my forehead. “You’re like your mother, aren’t you?”

“What does that mean?”

“Couldn’t mince words to save your soul.”

“Is that bad?”

“I don’t know.”

When I laughed, it wasn’t at Eliot or even at the impossible situation. I was laughing at the instant, 16- year-delayed illumination of something Oliver had once said to me.

“I want to be good.”

Was he saying that because he didn’t believe he already was? Oliver was always asking permission, apologizing, in a way, striving to be good enough.

Did I cause your nose bleed?  
Does this make you happy?  
Do you mind?

Had his father made him that way? Did he beat his bright, beautiful boy into self-doubt and submission? I didn’t know Oliver well enough to say. He’d shown me a glimpse, but never the full view. It was like Gail said: so easy to love, so difficult to know him.

Was Oliver passing that insecurity to his kid? I had no degree in psychology, but that’s how it seemed to me.

I squatted in front of Eliot and patted his cheek. He rested his tear-streaked face in my palm. I hadn’t planned to, but I stood and drew him into another, tighter hug. Tears threatened behind my eyes as a swell of longing for my father made me hold the boy even closer. Near enough to feel his heartbeat, only to realize it was my own.

Eliot clung to my shirt and I crushed his thin, solid body against me, just for a moment. Then, I leaned back for a long look at his face. Crystal eyes bright-wet. His plush, pink mouth. The smattering of moles across his milky cheek. I wiped the dark curls from his brow. They flopped back into place as I gripped his neck in both hands, kissed his cheek and whispered, “You’re a good kid, Eliot. All right?”

His unbelieving, unbelievable eyes lowered, and I ached to tell him just how beautiful he was. The compliment would be misinterpreted, or understood exactly as I meant it.

“You’re a good kid,” I repeated. “Look at me.”

He tried to hide behind his hands. I’d gone too far. He was going to shed more than tears. There would be a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. I drew on the only sure remedy I could think of and clicked on our last song: Phantom.

I peeled his hands from his face, brought them to my neck and swayed slowly. I closed my arms around his waist. He drew a deep, wavering breath and then rested his cheek on my shoulder. I’d danced the same way with my mother and my father when I was a little younger than Eliot’s age. I’d danced that way with Oliver in a hotel room while live swing music from a cafe down the street floated into our window.

Eliot mumbled against my temple, “I just—”

“Sh.”

I coaxed his head back to my shoulder. He let me move his tall, gawky body to the rhythm.

“My dad was crazy about you, wasn’t he?”

The question struck like a dagger beneath the shoulder blade: a painful surprise that could maim but not murder.

“You’d have to ask your dad.”

“He said he was,” Eliot said. “That you drove him crazy.”

“Well, then…”

“Do you still love him?”

“Eliot, shut up.”

I ran a hand down his back, aiming to help him relax his still timid and cautious movement.

As a lad and at my mother’s insistence, I’d been punished with five years of ballroom dancing. This wasn’t that. It was more than I would have dared in his mother’s presence, but nothing more than a soft, wholesome shuffle until Eliot’s arousal became evident against my belly.

I backed away and he clung to my finger until both of our arms were extended.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay. Now you’re all ready for prom,” I joked, disconnecting my finger from his grip.

“I don’t go to those things.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Lame.”

“That’s a lame answer.”

His grin was a little pitiful, but the lowest low had been successfully averted.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing my keys. “I’ll take you home.”

***

First, I located a pawn shop and put down fifty dollars in exchange for a well-worn, decent-sounding acoustic guitar. Eliot cradled it the entire ride home, staring at me as if I’d waved a wand and magicked it from thin air.

***

Gail’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but there was a ten-year-old hatchback Ford.

“Your dad’s car?”

Eliot nodded.

The safest plan would have been to let him out and keep driving. Catch that flight the following morning and never look back. There was no way I was going to come all the way to Massachusetts and leave without seeing Oliver. If all I said was “Hi” and “Bye.” Even if he refused to speak to me, I needed to see him.

I parked beside his chunk of scrap metal and walked the boy to the door. A silent shudder passed over me as if I was there to apologize for some wrongdoing. Before Eliot turned the key, he whispered, “You want to come to my room?”

“Probably not a great idea.”

His ridiculous innocence was almost unbearable. I touched the small of his back, briefly, then retracted my hand as the door squeaked open.

The house itself didn’t appear small, but inside the place was dim and cramped. The interior was a study in dust and charmless, out-of-date furniture. Not antiques. Tired, overworked pieces from Sears, or the like.

On the living room wall, there hung a yellowing framed document I recognized as their ketubah only by its resemblance to my parents’. To please my father’s mother, Richard and Anella Perlman were married in Connecticut in a traditional ceremony. Then, they’d returned to Europe and happily lived in my mother’s preferred the discretion.

Below the Heisenberg’s marriage contract, framed family members congregated on the mantle in eternal, grime-covered approval of the union.

“That’s my Gramma Claire, Grampa Leo, Gramma Fegel. Uncle Zed, Grampa Karl… ”

Oliver’s father was unmistakable. So like his son, but in shades of black, white and grey rather than the gold and bronze always present in Oliver’s memory. Karl Heisenburg, staunch in his Navy uniform, with the same remarkably handsome Western European features set in board-like seriousness.

The sight of the man clarified how much easier it would have been to get over his son if I’d had the same kind of father. If Professor Perlman, instead of inviting me to feel love more deeply, had made me feel filthy and insane for wanting a man, I’d have forgotten Oliver long before I did. I could have carved the want away like a rotten spot on an apricot. It was the one way my father failed me while Oliver’s father gave him strength.

“Is your dad home?”

“Well, he’s not living here right now.”

“Oh.”

“You want me to show you?”

“Please.”

“Are you going to —”

Eliot didn’t finish the question. I made no attempt to answer.

I followed him through the house, past the sinkful of dirty dishes, and the strange odor in the kitchen. Out of the back door.

In that one old photograph, I saw why Oliver always needed me to come to him. And for once, I was glad that I had spoken back then. That I’d followed him to America. That I’d called him to LA.

Here was that same need to see him again. To know how he felt. The need compelled me to cross the crackling grass in the blazing heat behind his firstborn son as if performing some ancient pilgrimage.

Eliot knocked and then darted back to the house. The shed door opened as the kid disappeared through the screen door.

Oliver glowered down, face nearly blank beneath a quiet tone of distaste. He didn’t invite me inside and stood so that his body blocked the view.

“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “I just wanted to check on the little one.”

“He’s fine.”

“Good,” I said, nodding, willing more words to form. “And to tell you that Eliot did a beautiful job. I’ll have copies for you all in a few weeks.”

Oliver stuffed his hands in his pocket. “Is that all?”

“Um…” I wiped the corners of my parched mouth. “I guess, I…”

“My wife is leaving me.”

My lips fell open, but only air escaped.

“She’s taking the money from your little… project.”

A few gears fell into place, knocking others out of sync.

“She believes I want to be with you. She thinks that’s why I went to LA. Nothing I’ve said can convince her otherwise.”

“So…” I tried to swallow and failed, unsure what I wanted to say, ask, hear.

Oliver threw up his hands. “So. If that’s why you’re here, please, leave. I’ve built a life, Elio. A real life. Not some pipe dream of being with you.”

This.

I understood, at that moment, that this was the end I needed.

Losing Oliver had always ached so deep and for so long because it felt artificial. We’d been unjustly severed by circumstances, rather than allowing our natural undoing. Would he grow tired of my compulsions? Or I of his snoring? We were never allowed to find out.

Here he was, making a clear choice. It was strangely easy to accept, or maybe I’d had enough practice to simply nod and walk away. I moved in a daze, vaguely aware that I should say goodbye to Eliot, or leave a note for Gail. Instead, I climbed into my rental and began mentally packing my suitcase to be sure I left nothing behind.

Before I turned the corner, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The kid was standing in the middle of the road, watching me go. I could have honked my horn, or turned around, but I had nothing more to say to him.


	12. Chapter 12

In those days, the record company reps required a professional headshot with demos. They were looking for more than a marketable sound. They wanted to know the artist's look would sell.

Anaïs suggested I fly back and arrange a photoshoot, but I couldn’t even pick up the phone. Never wanted to deal with the Heisenberg family again. The oxygen had bled out of the project for me. Anaïs’ enthusiasm was the only fuel keeping it alive. She seemed to enjoy the excuse to come over and check on ‘the demo.’ I tolerated her intrusion. When she called, impersonating a secretary I don’t have, Gail promised to send one of Eliot’s school pictures. 

On a windy Friday morning, I stood in my robe and slippers on the street in front of my house. I tucked all the mail under one arm except for a pale blue envelope addressed in barely legible scribble. Posted in Massachusetts.

_9-3-98_

_ber elio_

_i bont usally riht leters sare if this is afl ill tri to get detr my qarenz bont want me to call you and my bab wont let me use his tipritr._

_thank yu so much for the operunity to work with yu on yur bimo i relly lovd the songs and seeng how you bo wat yu bo my favrit qart waz wachng yu at the consol yu lok so at home thar_

_so wats next_

_Love eliot h esq III Jus kiding eliot rodert heisenderg_

_qs: wats your hol name?_

_qqs: qractising evry bay._

TRANSLATION:

Dear Elio,

I don’t usually write letters. Sorry if this is awful. I’ll try to get better. My parents don’t want me to call you and my dad won’t let me use his typewriter.

Thank you so much for the opportunity to work with you on your demo. I really loved the songs and seeing how you do what you do. My favorite part was watching you at the console. You look so at home there.

So, what’s next?

Love, Eliot H. Esq. III

Just kidding. Eliot Robert Heisenberg

PS: What’s your whole name?

PPS: Practicing every day

***

It took a while to decode Eliot’s letter. Besides the painful spelling issues, the script was a slanting jumble. Letter "e" was written backwards and some words were crossed out and attempted second and third times, not always with accurate results. If I was twelve, I would have guessed it was a code.

Contrary to my better judgment, and although I wasn’t sure how well he could read, I wrote back.

_Dear Eliot,_

_Great to hear from you. The pleasure was all mine_

**(I immediately scrapped that version)**

_Eliot,_

_How are you? Thanks for writing. I enjoyed recording with you, as well. Your voice is truly a gift and I’m glad to hear that you’re making good use of the guitar. Your work ethic will take you far with whatever you choose to do. _

_You asked what’s next. I assume you mean for the demo. Well, after the post-production is complete, I might shop it around. That means letting different people hear the songs and your voice. If there’s any interest, I’ll let your mom know._

_In the meantime, you might want to check out some local open mic nights and find out whether you enjoy performing in front of a live audience. That was never my favorite thing, although my parents made me play every time they had guests._

**(I stared at the page. The kid hadn’t asked for an autobiography. But I left it alone and signed)**

_Your friend,_

_Elio Perlman_

_PS: How is your family?_

I’d nearly written ‘father’ instead of ‘family’ and thought better of it.

The response rotted on my desk for two weeks before I reread it thirty times to be sure nothing could be misconstrued.

*******

_11-22-98_

_ber elio_

_Thanx SO much for rihting me back_

_HAPPY THANKSGIVING!_

_ar you seledrating? bo you lik turky?_

_evrydobys goob here. odie’s cast iz off. carlos just hab a derthbay. my bab degb and degb my mom and now hez livng in the haws agin wich iz goob for him, decas it snowb last wek. also, thare gong to sum kind uv speshul tharpe. I thik its workng decas thar iz less yelng aron the haws._

_my mom took me to one of those oqen miks. I waz a litl worreb at first dut wen I got uq thare it was like walkng or drethng. the lady ho ran it sad I seng like an angle and that I waz a nachrul. I told her thats what you sad._

_when she asked who elio waz I sab hez this hotshot praduser in la. I bont think she deleveb me, but evrydoby was relly nise. I think Ill go dack next week. _

_also my aunt dardaras getng rib of her qiano and im degging my qarents to mak spase in the dasment. the only thing is its qretty out of key dut Ill worry about that once I get it._

_cross yur fingrs with me._

_Love, Elio(t)_

_qs: jus kidng. dont frek out_

TRANSLATION:

Dear Elio, 

Thanks so much for writing me back.

**(Was that in doubt? Did I seem like the kind of person who doesn’t write back?)**

Happy Thanksgiving!

Are you celebrating? Do you like turkey?

Everybody’s good here. Obie’s cast is off. Carlos just had a birthday. My dad begged and begged my mom and now he’s living in the house again, which is good because it snowed last week. Also, they’re going to some kind of special therapy. I think it’s working because there is less yelling around the house.

My mom took me to one of those open mics. I was a little worried at first, but when I got up there, it was like walking or breathing. The lady who ran it said I sang like an angel and that I was a natural. I told her that’s what you said.

When she asked who Elio was, I said he was this hotshot producer in LA. I don’t think she believed me, but everybody was really nice. I think I’ll go back next week.

Also, my aunt Barbara is getting rid of her piano and I’m begging my parents to make space in the basement. The only thing is, it’s pretty out of key, but I’ll worry about that once I get it.

_Cross your fingers with me._

_Love, Elio(t)_

_PS: Just kidding. Don't freak out_

*******

I decided not to write again. His letters were excruciating to read. There was nothing else to say. For the first time, I could understand why Oliver said we shouldn’t write back then. To keep it up would be stringing Eliot along, and I didn’t want to be cruel.

We’d made the recording. It had turned out amazing and was in the able hands of Anaïs’ agent. Like I told him, I’d be in touch if there was a bite.

It was possibly, probably, way out of line to dance with Eliot the way I’d done. It was not appropriate for me to exchange personal letters with this kid. With Oliver’s son. I wasn’t even sure his parents knew we were corresponding. It would be far too awkward to ask them.

So, I stopped.

  
****

*******

  
****

_1-4-99_

_HAPPY NEW YEAR!_

_DOES Y2K FREEK YOU OUT? IM A LITLE FREEKD OUT BY IT. BUT ALSO A LITLE EXITED ABOT A WORLD WITH NO MASHENS AND COMPUTERS. XCEPT ID MISS THE LEGEND OF ZELDA. I THIK OBIE WUD DI WITHOT IT_

_GESS WELL SEE WAT HAPENS_

_FAMLY UPDATE:_

_MOM MAY START WORKNG AT BOSTON COLLEGE IN THE FALL. SHE UST TO WORK THAR _ _SO SHED JUST BE GONG BAC. DAD JUST ROT AN ARTIKUL AND IS TRYNG TO GET IT PABLISHD. HAVE YOU EVR RED ANY OF HIS RIHTING? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ANY OF IT?_

_ANEWAY, I’M JUST CHEKING IN TO ASK HOW YOUR HALIDAS WERE. ITS BEEN A WILE AND IV BEN THIKNG ABUT YOU WICH YOU MABE DONT WANT TO NO BUT I HAVE. MOSLY IV BEN THIKNG ABOUT WAT YOU SAD._

**(Which thing? I think I said a lot of things.)**

AND THIKNG ABOUT OUR MUSIC. YOUR MUSIC. BUT I ALSO FEL PART OF IT AND LIK ITS PART OF ME. HOP IT DOSENT MAK YOU ANGRY IF I THINK THAT.

_ANEWAY I THIK IV FINLY FIGERD OUT WAT IM GOOD AT. THATS A RELEF. IN FACT, IT FELS RELY RELY GOOD. LIK MABE IM NOT A WAST OF SKIN AFTR ALL. DO YOU NO WAT I MEN?_

_I THIK YOU DO_

_LOVE ELIOT_

_PS:DONT WANT TO MISS A THING BY AEROSMITH IS MY FAVRIT SONG RIHT NOW. WATS YOURS?_

PPS:_ YOU NO THE COOL THIG ABOUT Y2K? IF THE WORLD ENS YOU AND I WILL STILL B ABL TO MAK MUSIC FOR PEPL._

*******

I wasn't going to be that obnoxious name-dropping guy and tell Eliot that my buddy, Diane wrote that song, or that I was completely fucking sick of hearing it. 

It’s fairly easy to ignore winter holidays in LA. That’s what I’d done, right along with my birthday and no one had any idea, except for my mother, who sent a bundle of my old albums. Most of them cracked in transit, but they arrived on time.

I called and thanked her. Our twenty-minute conversation was a 10-year record. My father was out of the house, so I missed talking to him. When he called back, I was in a meeting. We tagged each other for a week before I stopped returning his calls. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

I didn’t write any of this to Eliot. I hadn’t spoken to any of them since the summer, but on January 13, 1999, I drank a bit too much and called.

“Heisenbergs.”

“Hi, Gail.”

I was leaning with my elbows on my kitchen counter and the half-empty bottle of Chateau Lafite 1990 Red at my fingertips. It was not a phone call I could have placed sober.

“Mr. Perlman?”

“Yeah, listen. Eliot tells me you’re getting a piano.”

“We are not getting a piano,” she spoke firmly enough to know that was decided. “He told you when?”

“The kid should have a piano.”

“There’s no space for it, Mr. Perlman.”

“You should call me Elio.”

“I know he’s dedicated, but there is no place in this house for a grand piano.”

I’d been in the house and even an upright would be a stretch. Gail could only accept my offer or decline it. When I spit out the idea, she responded with a full minute of silence.

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to pay you back.”

“You’re not,” I said. “If he plays it, that’s payback. It’s a late Hannukah gift. Or an early birthday. Whatever. Just please, don’t mention that it came from me.”

“A Casio what, now?”

I could hear her rustling in a drawer for a pen. It was a simple keyboard with 88 weighted keys that could be stowed in his closet or under the bed, if necessary. If I didn’t spend the money on Eliot, I’d smoke it. I’d be smoking anyway, but springing for that keyboard was not a hardship.

“So, you’re his fairy godmother now?

“Sure.” I smiled. “How’s everyone?”

“Oliver’s fine. Would you like to speak with him?”

“No. Thanks. And the kids?”

“Whose names are…”

Busted. Trust Gail Heisenberg to call me on my bullshit. Backed into a corner, I tried, “Charlie?”

She chuckled. “Carlos and Ovid are well. Thank you for asking. I’ll talk with Ollie about it. Have a good evening, Mr. Perlman,” she said, although it was only 3PM Pacific time.

***

I was in the thick of scoring Chris’ film. I’d picked up a commission for a one-act, one-woman play, and some arrangement work for an orchestral treatment of some Joplin pieces. When my dance card got like that I didn’t leave the house much, and that suited me fine.

***

_JANUARY 27, 1999_

_DEER ELIO,_

_CRAZY THING. MY MOM GOT SUM KIND OF BONIS AND BOT ME A KEBORD. ITS PRETY AWSUM AND KIND OF AMAZNG CONSIDRING HOW MUCH MY FOKS FIHT ABOUT MONEY._

_BUT THINGS ARE MUCH BETTER. THE THARPE IS WORKNG. ITS ALSO GROSE. THAY MUST HAVE SUM AGREMENT TO DO IT 4 TIMES A WEEK BECAUSE THEY NEVER UST TO DO IT AT ALL. NOT THARES LIKE A SKEDUL. ITS FUCKING AWFUL AND LOUD AND THARE ALL SMILY THE NEXT MORNING AND KISNG AND YUCK_

** _(I waited for a sear of jealousy that never really came.) _**

_DID YOU EVER CACH YOUR PARENZ FUCKING? I THINK ITS ENUF TO MAK YOU IMPOTENT._

** _(At that, I laughed out loud. I never caught my parents, but they never hid their affection. That didn't seem to have a negative impact on my sexlife.)_ **

_ALSO MY DAD THRU AWAY ALL HIS PORN. HE UST TO HAVE ALOT OF PORN. _

** _(I scratched my neck, but couldn't bring myself to stop reading.)_ **

_MY MOM UST TO SAY IF HE WOD GET A JOB INSTED OF WACHING SO MUCH PORN WED BE RICH._

_IF I COULD CHANG ONE THING ABOUT THE WORLD IT WOD BE TO GET RID OF MONEY. PEPL ACT SO DUM ABOUT THE LITLST THINGS._

_ANEWAY I NEVER HERD YOU PLAY PIANO BUT MY DAD ONS TOLD ME THAT YOU DO RELY WEL. CAN YOU TEL ME MORE ABOUT HOW YOU GOT WARE YOU AR?_

_ITS NOT A BIG DEEL IF YOU DONT WANT TO RIHT ME BACK. BUT IF IM BENG ANOYNG YOU SHOD AT LEST TEL ME TO LEV YOU ALON. YOU AR THE ONLY MUISHUN I NO EXEPT FOR OUR CANTOR AND IM NOT SAPOST TO TALK TO HIM. ALSO, HE DOSENT PLAY ANY INSTRAMENZ AND HES KIND OF A DORK._

_SOMTIMS I FEEL LIKE I DONT LOVE MUSIC ANEMORE. ITS MOR LIKE IM LIVING IT. LIKE SOMTIMS IT FEELS LIKE THE ONLE RESON IM ALIV. DOS THAT MAK SENSE?_

_ANEWAY, I UNDERSTAND THAT IM KIND OF ALOT. SO NO HARD FELINGS._

_LOVE, ELIOT._

***

_Dear Eliot,_

_You’re not being annoying. You are alot, and you’re perfect the way you are._

(**Scratch that version. Waste bin basketball. Redo.)**

_Eliot,_

_First things: you probably shouldn’t write to me about your folks anymore._

_Number two: cool about the keyboard._

_Three: I know what you mean about music. I eat, breathe, sleep, dream, love music in a way I don’t think most people can comprehend. That’s why I was so obsessed with your voice._

**(Obsessed was a bad word choice. Restart. Write "impressed.")**

_How did I get started? Big question I could answer a lot of ways. Simplest answer is pots and pans. My parents said I wouldn’t stop banging on things. Neither of my folks was musical, so. they found me piano lessons._

_I’m not sure if that’s answering your question at all._

_So much of this business is about knowing the right people. That reminds me. Our music has received a lot of positive feedback so far. Great work!_

**(In fact, there was more excitement about his voice than my songs. Everyone demanded a proper photo, but I couldn't rally my nerves to go back and get one taken. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask Gail to do it.)**

_My advice would be to keep digging in. Showing up to your instruments, that includes your voice. Dedication will get you where you’re going._

_Your friend,_

_Elio Perlman_

_PS: _ _I think about you a lot, too._

**(That stupid last line caused me to have to rewrite the entire letter, without the postscript.)**

*******

_2-3-99_

_Deer Elio,_

_Wat do you do when a girl likes you and you dont like girls? I meen, I like them fine, but not like that._

**(Although I’d never had precisely Eliot’s problem, I thought immediately of Marzia. Wondered how she was. And I wondered why Eliot wasn’t asking his father? What the hell was Oliver’s problem? He had this great kid and was letting the experience go to waste.)**

_She was supost to be my frend and I love her. But she also nos about me. Shes one of the onle pepl who nos. We usd to talk about guys togethr and now I cant talk to her at all. It maks me so mad. Its a total betrayl and it caht me off gard so that I did somthing relly dum and let her kiss me. Now, I feel like a frad and shes teling pepl shes my girlfrend._

_Anyway. Not your problem. Sarre to bother you._

_Love Eliot_

***

_Eliot,_

_I’m flattered that you trust me enough to ask my opinion. I don’t claim to be any relationship expert, but i_f_ someone is interested in you and that attraction isn’t reciprocated, it’s important to be honest and gentle. You treat your friend the way you’d want to be treated._

_It’s okay that you kissed her. Just explain what you’re feeling now and hopefully, she’ll understand._

_When I was your age, I actually slept with a friend who I loved, but ‘not that way’. I never stopped regretting being insincere. Not sure what the moral of that story is, but you’re not the only person to go through stuff like that._

_I hope that’s a little bit helpful._

_Your Friend,_

_Elio_

***

_2-14-99_

_Deer Elio,_

_Happy Singuls Awarness Day! Hahaha_

_Have you ever herd that? Halareous, riht?_

_First of all thanks for tellng me that._

_2\. I want to no evrything about you. Anething you’re willing to tell me._

_3\. Gess wat. Corina apolagized_

_Im not sure if you talk to my dad. If you do, you alredy no that I did somthing kind of stupid, kind of amazng._

_So Im one of the pepl who dose the morning anunsments at scol. I plege allegance and all that. This morning after under god, I cam out over the intercom!_

_Then I got expeled for ‘abus of posishun.’ Then my mom went in and mad a big fuss about it and I only got suspindid. Then she yelled at me for not telling her first. Then she yelled at my dad becase he alredy new._

_Obie kept askng whats gay and Carlos wont talk to me, I ges becas he nows what it is. Aneway, suspinshuon meens I get the next five days to work on music music music. All in all, a pretty good day._

_Yours Eliot_

** _(He dotted the I in his name with a cupid-shot heart)_ **

_PS: How was it for you when you came out? Is it better in Italy?_

Included in the package was one of those nasty little heart candies, a purple one with an inscription: BE MINE.

***

I didn’t respond for a while. It was a lot to process, and I was under a ton of work-related pressure. Chris didn’t think much of my theme music and I had to start back from square one. 

When I finally got around to writing, I spent ten minutes staring at the blank page before I lifted the pen.

_Dear Eliot,_

_You are one hell of a brave guy to do what you did. And I’m glad your mother stood up for you, although it does sound like you “abused your position.”_

_To your question. Honestly? I never really came out. I just fell in love and my parents witnessed the whole thing. Happened to be a guy._

**(Happened to be your father.)**

_It was a little awkward, but probably not worse than it would have been with a girl. Your folks don’t give you a hard time, do they?_

**(I used the word folks, because Eliot had given every indication that his mother was in his corner. Every exchange I’d ever witnessed between Oliver and his son was icy, at best. Could it really be because he knew that Eliot was gay? Or was it because Eliot wasn’t much of a scholar? **

**His writing had improved so much over the five months since he started sending letters that I considered making a comment. Then again, I didn’t want him to become self-conscious about it.)**

_Congratulations._

**(I scrapped that version and rewrote the whole thing)**

_I’m proud of you._

_Sincerely,_

_Elio_

  
****

He wasn’t mine to be proud of, but I couldn’t think of anything better. The whole note felt incredibly lame. I’d been fucking guys since I was 17, but I’d never lived as an out, gay man. I was no one to be giving advice. Maybe that’s why I never sent the letter.

***

Back then, I wouldn’t answer my phone unless was expecting the call. The habit developed after being disturbed in the studio one time too many.

I was at the piano working on Chris’ score with the phone on the bench beside me. I’d just gotten through talking with - or I should say listening to her describe how the timpani and cymbals should sound like the crash of ocean waves. Nothing pleased me more than when directors told me how to do my work. So when she called back an hour later, I strongly considered letting it go to voicemail.

That project couldn’t end a day too soon. With a loud breath, I answered.

That’s all there was on the other end: loud breathing.

“Hello?”

I never mistook it for a prank. That sound, deep in my ear, was instantly familiar. It thrilled through my body and made me listen as if someone was calling my name.

“Oliver?”

I spoke because he hadn’t yet.

After midnight in LA is three hours later in Chestnut Hill. I couldn’t be angry at the time of night, or even the way we’d left things. He was reaching out. I’d catch him if I could.

“Is everything okay?”

The stupid question spilled out of me and his breathing changed to a quicker pace, like he was jogging or laughing.

Once, when I was 18, Connor got so high that he’d stripped naked and ran up the stairs of our building yelling that Merlin the wizard was going to castrate him. I was half out of my gourd at the time, too, but eventually, I caught up, leapt onto his back, tackled him to the landing and lay beside him, gasping and wheezing.

Oliver sounded that way, only I was fairly certain he was crying.

“Oliver.”

A loud sniffle. A click. The dial tone.

Alone in my parlor, I let out a helpless chuckle, ran a hand over my head and searched the room as if a solution might be found on the walls.

10-321 confirmed that he was calling from home.

If I called back, I’d wake Gail and her children. Maybe he’d try again. I stood there waiting for god knows how long. Then I sat, and eventually fell asleep in a chair with the phone in my lap.

Five minutes after I awoke and limbered my vocal cords with a splash of vodka, I dared the return call.

8AM EST was a respectable time. Still, Gail sounded rushed and agitated, perhaps hurrying the kids for school. I hung up.

Ten minutes later, when I tried again, she answered again. I held my finger over the hook, cleared my breath and said, “Good morning.”

“Mr Perlman?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got some news.” Lies. I had only questions. “The execs at Sony are really excited about —“

“This isn’t a great time," she said. “Could you call again in the evening?”

What time was evening? Six hours later or eight? I wished her a pleasant day.

That evening, I asked if everyone was well. Gail was preparing dinner but brusquely answered that everyone was fine.

“And Oliver?”

She was silent for a moment.

“Honestly, I think he’s hit a rough patch," she said without explanation. "But that’s supposed to lead to a breakthrough so…”

I didn’t asked to speak with him. She didn’t offer. I also didn’t ask what she was stirring in her metal bowl but I could hear it as loudly as if she were standing next to me in my own kitchen. I wondered if Oliver enjoyed her cooking.

***

_3-18-99_

_Its my birthday._

_I hate evryone._

_Evryone hates me._

_Im the only out kid in my scool. In my synagog. On estern sebord. On erth._

_My parents hate me._

_My brothers hate me._

_My grades suck._

_Everything sucks._

_I dont know what Im fucking doing on ither of these instruments. Its like I’ve lerned evrything I can posbly lern and yet I still suck._

_Tiny briht side. I got my lisens. Also I met a guy in this group my mother made me go to. Hes cute but also goofy. But his name is Peter Johnson, wich is too stupid to be real._

_I miss you._

_Eliot_

***

That was good, right? Eliot was out there meeting kids his age. It was a reminder that I should do the same: get out and meet people and do things to have something to write in letters.

But I was sick of parties and clubs and being fake. I wasn’t going to write Eliot about escorts and one night stands. I had nothing to tell about my personal life, so my next letters were about music: What I was listening to, working on, artists he should check out and study.

I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know where to find real people. I didn’t even know if I was a real person.

What I did know was how to solve at least one of Eliot’s problems. I called Steve Manning, the guitarist we’d worked with in the studio. He didn’t give lessons, but he had a list of recommendations.

Gail's initial response was as expected: “Elio, I don’t know…”

“Please, do not talk to me about cost,” I said. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to. If I didn’t think it was important.”

The price of Eliot’s lessons equaled my monthly coffee budget. It was incredible fair trade, gourmet coffee, but no hardship. People who grow up without music regret it. People might tell horror stories about piano teachers, but no one who learned an instrument as a child wishes they hadn’t.

“Just call around," I said. "And see if you can find a good match.”

Two weeks later, she left a voice message with loud thumps and yelling in the background.

“Would you two quiet down!” she shouted, then asked into the phone, “Can you hear this?”

Behind the noise, there was piano music: Chopin’s Rainbow Prelude played with more emotion than precision. The smile took root in my chest before it blossomed on my face.

“We found a nice little church lady. Eliot loves her,” Gail said. “The problem is he won’t stop playing,Elio. He’s got carpal tunnel in his right hand and he won’t stop playing. Then he sits at dinner, complaining about the pain. That’s the only time he stops playing. For school and food. The idiot.”

The brightness on her voice was pride and joy.“Thank you.”

***

I didn’t write for a while and neither did Eliot. I assumed it was because his wrists were killing him, or because he was busy practicing. Or out with Peter Johnson.

If Eliot and I never exchanged another letter, and our recording venture went nowhere, he had the makings of a great musician and I’d been a meaningful part of that. As if in reward for my altruism, I eventually received a school picture from Gail. She attached a post-it that said merely:

_I hope this will do._

_\- G_

In the photo, Eliot wore an expression as if there was something unsavory on the bottom of the photographer’s shoe. Such a beautiful kid, even in that unflattering shot. The photo filled me with an odd, familiar warmth, as if he were someone I’d known a thousand years ago or should prepare to meet a thousand years in the future.

It wouldn’t do for professional purposes, so I left it on my coffee table where I’d inadvertently pass it several times a day and get a chuckle out of Eliot’s ‘who stepped in what?’ face.

***

The call came on a Thursday. I don’t usually answer my phone. This was no exception.

I was lounging on my living room sofa, eyes closed, hands folded over my stomach, listening to a new piano concerto I was to arrange for symphony when the ringing began. Out of key and rhythm. Obviously, I let it go to voice mail.

Oliver’s voice derailed my focus. I hopped up to answer before he was finished leaving his message. Running to the phone, I barked my shin against the glass coffee table, howled and stumbled two feet before landing on my knees. I rolled onto my back, jerked the cord and brought the receiver crashing into my forehead.

It was one of those moments I was glad I lived alone.

“Hey,” I said, consciously trying to make my breathlessness sound sexy.

“Uh, hey, Elio. I thought I was leaving a message.”

“No. I’m home.” Lying on my back like a beetle.

“It’s Oliver.”

Already knew that. My heart had already given a solid punch against my ribs. I’d already made a private fool of myself. Who else could it be? We hadn’t spoken since the shed incident, but I had more information than desired about Oliver’s welfare, courtesy of Eliot.

“What’s up?”

“Uh, I just had a little talk with Gail," he said. "She told me her sister was paying for it.”

I sat up and leaned against the wall. It was too soon to stand and Oliver wasn’t making sense yet.

“Listen, you don’t know what you’re doing. I understand that.”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

“You need to stop buying things, doing things for Eliot.”

I stopped breathing.

“I’m his father. If I don’t get him piano lessons, he doesn’t get them,” he said in this Oliver Knows Best tone I couldn’t contradict. “I went along with the recording, against my better judgment. Gail was in the studio, and that was fine, even though you completely undermined my authority.”

“Oliver.”

“No. It has to stop. How is he going to learn boundaries if —” he made an audible effort to control himself. “Okay? Am I clear?”

“Yeah.” Clear as mud. “I hear you.”

"Good. Thanks."

Then, he was gone. 

***

Three weeks later, when I got the call from Anaïs that her friend at Columbia wanted to see Eliot perform live, I told her that it wasn’t going to happen.

“Elio, she’s been in the business thirteen years,” she said. “They’ve got all the backing, the connections. They’re looking for unique, young artists—”

“That’s great, but it’s not going to happen, A.” I poured a splash more absinthe into my cocktail. “The world is full of talented kids. They’ll find what they’re looking for.”

“I thought--”

“Thanks for trying,” I said and hung up.

It was time to back off from Oliver's family.

***

_6-3-99_

_Dear Elio,_

_I fucked up._

_They have me on this 24 hour wach thing, like some kind of baby even thoh I sad Im not going to do anything. They dont beleive me._

_Don’t know if you’ve alredy heard this from my dad, but I tried to take Pete as my date to prom and they woldnt let us in. Totally blocked the door and everything._

_The next day somebody s_ _praypanted my locker with the word FAG._

_Also my dad sold my keybord. So yea pretty much everything here is fucked. _ _I was just pissed off._

_How are you?_

_Love Eliot_

_PS: I havnt herd from you in forevr and i no your not going to riht back but I love you anyway._

***

“Heisen—”

“What the hell happened?”

“It sounds like you already know what happened,” Gail snapped right back at me.

“Is he okay?”

“They let him out yesterday,” she said. “He’s on a mild sedative and he's been pretty erratic anyway.”

“Why didn’t you…” I paced the living room. Nobody had called me because it wasn’t my business. “Can I talk to him?”

“Of course.” Gail put down the phone, but I could still hear her shout, “Bobby. Come to the phone… You’ll find out who it is when you pick it up.”

It took a full five minutes before he answered, voice lethargic and rough, as if he’d been gargling gravel. “Hello?”

With a surge of warm tenderness, I slumped into the nearest chair. “Hey.”

“Elio?”

“Yeah, I uh…” I cleared the spiderweb from my throat. “I got your letter.”

“Oh. Yeah. I sent that like a week ago.” His laugh was humorless. “If you don’t want to have a shitty week, don’t ever tell anyone you’re going to kill yourself.”

I leaned forward in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose, wishing I could be there to hang an arm over his shoulder. I’d feel just as useless doing that as I did all the way across the country.

“Are you… Is there anything I can do?”

“I’d like to see you,” he said instantly, as if he’d anticipated the question and planned the answer.

I had work coming out of my nostrils. There was no way I could get away, even for a couple of days. 

“Yeah, buddy. I’d like that, too,” I said. “I just don’t see it happening right now.”

***

I was laying alone, in the dark, in my California king-sized bed, in my otherwise empty ten-room home - humming a bright, four-bar motif when the obvious, impossible solution came to me like a lightbulb switching on in a cartoon.It was obvious in that it made perfect sense. Impossible in that Oliver wouldn’t go for it.

Making the suggestion would create unnecessary rifts. He’d be even more pissed at me, of course. Possibly peeved with Gail who would, undoubtedly, be on my side. Oliver might give Eliot a hard time, which was the last thing I wanted. But if I had even the slightest possibility of helping that kid, I had to try.

It was 2:13 in the morning, LA time. A wise man would sleep on it. A crazy man would call the east coast at 5AM their time. I lay there, trying to figure out what kind of man I was.

My right foot tapped time. Left hand pounded a counter rhythm against my thigh. I began to hum that motif again while my right hand pounded sixteenth notes over my heart.

***

The package arrived First Class. Inside was a cassette with the label inscription:

_Eliot H. June 20, 1999_

_For Elio P._

The audio was of the crappiest imaginable quality: all high frequencies, hissing static and crackling. I put on my headphones and turned the volume up to 10.

Someone was giggling. Carlos or Ovid, maybe?

Eliot shushed them and began to speak.

“Hey, Elio. This is better than a letter, right? Mom told me what you guys talked about and … I… I can’t even really believe it. I just wanted to thank you and tell you I can’t wait to see you.”

“And your dick.”

That voice belongs to another boy. Not one of his little brothers. A teen.

“Shut up,” Eliot whispered. Then he continued, “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year and I’m kind of, a little bit nervous to see you. You're so amazing to be doing this, but you're always amazing. And I'm crazy excited. And I wanted to just...”

His guitarwork wasn’t dazzling, but it was consistent. Then there was Eliot's voice giving me goosebumps like it had the first time.

_Day after day, I’m more confused._

_Yet I look for a sign in the pouring rain_

When the song was through, I rewound the tape, painfully aware of how ill-advised it was to listen again like an overgrown, lovesick puppy. That’s why I only did it three more times that day.


	13. Chapter 13

Discovery Number One: the minivan was not designed for seduction. Anyone lusting after Papa Bear sexy hasn’t seen what he drives.

Drive a mile behind a man’s steering wheel, understand some of his plight. In Massachusetts, Oliver drove a ten-year-old station wagon. The shiny Ford Aerostar I’d rented was newer, but not better. The hulking behemoth rolled off the parking lot, instilling sympathy in my humbled belly.

At the terminal, a two-boy stampede charged toward me shouting entitlement to the crappy back seats. Eliot towered above Gail but leaned to whisper like a co-conspirator. Behind them, Oliver was the hunched pack mule pushing luggage on an airport cart. His face was somber, lost in focus on his task, or simply avoiding my eyes. Poor manners were an improvement from open hostility.

Still, I alone was to blame for the tension. It was my idea to invite the entire Heisenberg clan thereby avoiding accusation or guilt of inappropriate conduct. Gail had refused to come without Oliver who, after a week’s deliberation, astonished us all by agreeing.

Unable to abide the threat of four days of silence, I said, “Oliver.”

“Elio.”

It wasn’t much better than nothing.

As I was neither accustomed nor positively disposed to guests, at the advice of my Tai Chi instructor, I developed a simple mantra: I can do this.

I could survive four days with the Heisenbergs. The house was huge. There was ample room for each and all of us. I’d mostly be working in the studio. Kindness and generosity are never a mistake.  
(That last bit was borrowed from my father’s litany of advice).

Four days were manageable and non-negotiable. After that, Gail had meetings at the university. Then, school for the kids.

“Mr. Perlman.” Gail, the designated family ambassador, offered a firm shake.

“Would you call me Elio, please?”

She smiled, nodded and showed no sign of compliance.

Their once-tall boy had grown huge in the year since I’d last seen him. However, his personality seemed to have diminished, shoulders sloped. I’d already planned a dispassionate response to Eliot flinging his arms around my neck, sputtering hot gratitude into my ear. He volunteered a warm, but furtive grip and mumbled a tepid prepared statement:

“Thank you for your generosity.”

“Of course.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat, throat pinched with agitation - more at my own disappointment than his lukewarm greeting. My young protegé was visiting with his family. It was better that he didn’t shower me with affection.

As the others fussed with seatbelts, Eliot flicked a languid blink in the rear-view mirror that sparked a flare in my chest and stirred me in unacceptable ways. I adjusted the reflection away from his face.

Once in the house, Ovid, the youngest at nine years old, began his journey by sliding down the bannister, careening to the marble floor, and knocking his shoulder from the socket. His father violently jammed it back in place, sparing us a trip to the hospital, but not the hour of agonized howling that followed.

“It’s not the first time,” Gail explained.

In those minutes, I suffered my first deep pang of regret.

The Baseball Room was so designated and decorated in response to my realtor’s constant comments about the delightful family I could raise in the house. It was a shrine to my undesired and imaginary son. The truth is, I never gave a fig about baseball or American Football. Eleven year-old Carlos darted and dove, face-first, onto the bed. Gail laughed and instructed him to put away his clothes while I failed to comprehend how Oliver had sired these feral children.

As I was guiding the parents to their suite (in the opposite wing from my room) chords from the piano rose through the rafters: a rudimentary, but lively rendition of Elton John’s I’m Still Standing. I stood still to listen.

“He’s getting good,” Gail said.

I continued down the hall.

The housekeeper had done her work. I could have wasted ten minutes demonstrating the shower knobs. Instead, I pointed to their door and hustled back to the parlor in time to witness Eliot kicking over my piano bench.

Still playing and singing, he threw back his head and laughed at his audience’s (my) shock. His voice was clear as ever, but his bastardized version of Sir Elton’s chords grated my nerves. I waved him aside and played the voicings from the original recording. Eliot nodded and prodded me with his elbow.

That light contact set my mind in suspended motion, skin tingling, breath bated. I could no longer pretend to my gift was purely altruistic. I wanted Eliot.  
Stupidly. Impossibly.

Before I even issued the invitation, I silently vowed to always act as if his father was watching. The first crack in my policy appeared when the boy attacked with all the crushing tenderness of a Great Dane, wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me from my feet.

I chuckled. “All right.”

He shifted then and fell against me, arms clasped around my shoulders as he sighed into my hair. The warmth of his breath penetrated to my scalp. When hummed low, the tremolo buzzed against my cheek.

“I missed you.”

Under the force of his emotion, I found myself unable to speak a reply. I embraced Oliver’s gigantic baby. Then, I put a respectable distance between us and pointed to the bench. “Pick that up.”

Grinning, Eliot righted it and set to work practicing the improved chords.

The quiet spell of watching Eliot’s long fingers conquer the keys instantly shattered when Gail and Oliver entered the room. His hand rested on her shoulder reminding me of that sweltering day in my parents’ garden, the first time a shirtless, overbearing and unbearable Oliver touched me.

I brushed off the nostalgia and guided them to the dining room where we could spread their map over the table.

“Elio, your home is magnificent,” Gail declared.

I thanked her and added, “It’s easy to be orderly when you live alone.”

I bit my cheek. If she was fazed by the unintentional indictment of her homemaking skills, it didn’t show. Gail smiled and settled a hand low on Oliver’s back, attention devoted to the map.

I dutifully pointed out the kid-friendly sights and turned over the keys to the rental. There was nothing in my personal fleet that would accommodate their horde and I had promised to arrange everything.

They couldn’t set out from the house soon enough. There was still work oozing from my ears. We agreed that they’d entertain themselves all day and I’d join for dinner.

“Could I hang around and watch you work?”

Eliot stood below the archway between the rooms. The waning sunlight from the parlor window cast a celestial glimmer around him. He’d reached and would soon surpass his father’s height. He was also more sturdily built than I recalled: athletic arms and broad chest taxing a too-tight RHCP t-shirt. Against the black fabric, he appeared ivory, as if summer would never arrive to his skin. His mouth was plush and plum-colored. Wild, nearly-jet curls hung into his face like vines, obscuring his eyes. If I stared too long, I’d ignite.

Eliot looked less like a child than I had the summer I gave myself to the man who would become his father. Eliot was seventeen to my thirty-four (ten years older than Oliver had been). And I was the boy’s mentor.

When I was twelve, my piano instructor, Herr Strowick, a sixty-something German, would as casually correct my fingering as press his erection to my shoulder. The gesture never went any further and I only understood it years later. I would not be that way toward Eliot.

Despite all that and his parents’ presence, I yearned to move nearer. Instead, I dropped my eyes back to the map and circled The Getty Center.

“No, buddy,” I said without looking up. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to concentrate.”

I could only hope they all heard my words and not the catch in my voice.

***

Later that afternoon, I happened upstairs for lunch and found them all (excluding Oliver) loitering in my kitchen. The gremlins had ransacked my fridge, spreading styrofoam containers and half-empty soda cans all over the counter.

I’m not even sure how I mustered the strength not to bellow. Rather than speak, I clutched my fists, silently repeated my mantra and waited until the flare of fury subsided.

Contrition was not a Heisenberg family trait. Eliot picked up one of my food boxes and pursed his lips, evidently forgetting that I was twice his age.

“What is this even?”

I answered only because Gail made no attempt to mask her curiosity.

“Mushu Pork. I think. Or Foo Young.”

I lacked the bravery to investigate and couldn’t have said how long the food had been in there.

“You do know there’s, like, a whole vegetable portion to the food chart.”

I knew ways to deal with Eliot’s sass. None of them was appropriate. I slipped back toward the door to the studio. Resolved to order a pizza, I said, “You guys can put anything in there that you want.”

“Who’s this?” Ovid asked pointing to a personalized Christmas card featuring a small blonde hugging a St. Bernard.

It clung to the refrigerator among the Post-Its and photographs of other peoples pets and offspring.

My survival instinct urged me to flee this kid and the burgeoning inquisition. Alas, Gail and Eliot were watching.

“That is…” I plucked off the magnet to read the child’s name from the back of the card. “Kathy.”

I couldn’t remember whose kid Kathy was or whether I’d received the season’s greeting that winter or the previous year.

“Who is this?”

To entertain a child once is to fashion your own noose.

“That is my friend Chiarra’s little girl.”

Whose name I couldn’t recall. She’d sent the snapshot years earlier. I’d slapped it on the fridge and forgotten to send congratulations. Surely, my parents did something nice for the occasion.

“What is this?”

‘This’ was rapidly approaching the boundaries of my patience. Ovid was nine years old. Could he not read? To humor the boy, his mother, and his older brother who was smiling behind his fist, I peeled the paper from the fridge and looked it over.

“Oh.”

I’d completely forgotten Anaïs’ wedding invitation.

***

That first night, rather than sleep, I lay in my bed, murmuring out loud like a hermit driven madder by the oddity of harboring guests. I complained to myself that their energy was disturbing my equilibrium when I usually slept no more than a few hours at a time, often at my console or on the couch in my studio.

I got up and haunted the corridors like a dead man. The hardwood creaked and moaned. I calculated the odds of bumping into Eliot on his way to the bathroom, planning to claim I was up for a snack and invite him to eat with me. 

Eventually, I returned to my room and locked the door to keep myself inside. Other night wanderers were unlikely to come close. I'd roomed the entire family near one another and far from me as a safeguard to keep my body from following my unraveling mind.

***

Discovery Number Two: Oliver was a gifted cook.

Gail bought groceries, filling my fridge with more fresh food than it had ever held. He turned them into a masterpiece of American classics: creamy mashed potatoes, scalloped green beans with roasted garlic and almonds alongside pan-seared scallops.

On first bite, I could only say, “Wow.”

It was a defining detail I might have learned if we’d had more time together. Or had Oliver’s culinary skills developed in the years since then? I didn’t know and the lack of freedom to ask made me lonely for all the other secrets I’d never learn.

The only time his children didn’t crow and try to outshout one another was while they chewed. Gail recounted the day’s sightseeing. I pretended not to notice Eliot watching me eat.

**A**fter dinner, I thanked them and excused myself.

Within a few hours, I was deep into my work when a quiet knock fell on the studio door. I paused the track, sighed and braced myself to send Eliot back to bed. He’d either obey or create a dilemma I didn’t know how to diffuse. How many times could I deny him?

The door slid open and Oliver entered. My chested tightened as if he’d caught me in the heinous act of expecting his son.

“Am I bugging you?”

“No. Not at all.”

I alighted from my chair and landed in an embrace neither of us initiated. It happened as naturally as if we’d been doing it our whole lives. The old program from our summer rebooting without a hitch and without the heat. Oliver patted my back. I cleared my throat and stepped back, still reeling in the fog caused by his unanticipated presence and proximity.

“It’s pretty neat down here,” he said, poring over my gear.

It was tantamount calling his most recent tome, ‘swell.’

I let it stand.

Oliver was making peace. I was witnessing a miracle. His fingers brushed over the untuned strings on a mandolin that hung from the wall.The discordant notes faded slowly from the air.

“I don’t suppose you feel like playing.

“Not especially,” I answered honestly.

He nodded and perched on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. Infinite legs jutting awkwardly.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

He could have huffed and puffed and knocked me over. Oliver had already blown my mind by accepting the invitation. He’d only done so after insisting on a detailed repayment plan, but I hadn’t expected we’d exchange more than five words.

“We needed a vacation,” he said. “With everything, you know.”

I nodded, wary that my voice would ruin the moment.

“The kids are crazy about your pool. Ovid is planning to scale the Hollywood sign.”

I laughed. Oliver laughed. More silence. I shoved my hands into my pockets, sitting on the brink of the console.

“I, uh, don’t know if Gail mentioned, I’m working on a new book.”

She’d mentioned.

“So, that’s pretty great. And I just got an article published in Nat Geo, so…”

“That’s awesome, Oliver.”

“Yeah, it’s good. And she … she’s got us in this counseling. It’s been almost a year now. Did she mention that?”

I nodded although I’d received the information from Eliot’s letters. 

“Overpriced, but …” Oliver studied his feet and inhaled as if preparing to pearl dive. “I just wanted to say…”

I stopped breathing for a moment and then blurted, “Listen, Oliver—”

“No, it’s…” He cleared his throat and leveled a paralyzing blue gaze. “You weren’t part of the plan.”

“I know.”

“Let me finish.”His fists clamped and unfurled. “When you called, at first, I thought … But that’s not… It’s not going to happen… I was cruel, I know that, but, I needed to be clear with myself… You understand that I did the right thing? I wanted a family, Elio. You were never part of the plan.”

I focused on breathing. As long as I was breathing I’d be fine.

“You never came home.”

Either he was talking in riddles or the oxygen wasn’t filtering through my brain properly.

“That doesn't matter,” he said. “It was my fault. I held onto you for way too long. I’d never had anything like that before or since. I let it make me miserable. Let it make me believe I could never be happy again.”

I’d drunken my share of that misery but only nodded, mesmerized by a strange, hungerless calm.

“I loved you, Elio. I still do. I love what we had, more than... But I made a choice. And I have to live inside that choice. I have to give myself over to it and stop letting memories erode my marriage. My sanity.”****

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I should have said it back then. Should have…”

I’d never expected or desired Oliver’s apology, but it mollified the last of my ache. It didn’t recover what was lost, or explain why he was so cold with Eliot. But it healed a multitude of hurt.

“Gail. My kids. They’re my life.”

“You don’t have to say anything else, Oliver. I get it.”

He nodded, nostrils flaring, eyes bright and wide. In that moment, I saw his son. Not a physical resemblance, but an essence, a longing beneath the skin. Perhaps Oliver’s father had borne it, too.

“You’re a good man.”

He couldn’t have convicted me more deeply if he’d openly accused me of lusting after his kid.

As if reading my mind, Oliver went on, “And your generosity towards Eliot… Your friendship has meant a lot to him. God knows I couldn’t…” He lowered his eyes. “I’ve made mistakes … I can’t take back.”

Without warning, he stood and hugged me again, a wide hand sliding over my hair gripping my neck. The other pressed to the small of my back. I hadn’t been held like that since the last time Oliver held me. Not since the days of curling myself around my parents, or the Dacosta girls. Melding the boundaries of my body with theirs, becoming one thing for a time. I sighed, letting myself melt against him. Cheek to his collarbone, his heartbeat beneath my jaw. To deny desire would be a deception. How could I stand in the arms of my first love and not recall all the times this embrace had led to him laying me down and taking me apart? That memory will linger forever in my muscle, my mind, the pit of my gut.

But that ancient want had mellowed into contentment I'd forgotten was possible.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”

Thus spake Heraclitus.No truer words were ever uttered.

When Oliver finally let me go, he puffed his cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie and blew out an embarrassed chuckle. I clapped his shoulder, smiled and waited until he was back upstairs to return to my work.

***

Oliver had taken one of my sportscars for a solo drive.

All Gail and the boys would say was 'surprise.' Carlos and Obie bounced in their seats. Eliot kept grinning over from the driver’s seat.

I tried not to grumble but was never fond of surprises. My mother used to say that I was never really a child. For a few years, I was a chubby-cheeked Buddha, but always brooding and serious, like a tiny reincarnated composer who couldn’t wait to get back to his music.

The moment we arrived at Baldwin Lake, the boys scurried around the van and reemerged with rods and buckets.

Here,I’ll forego a long description of the afternoon in lieu of one word: fishing. I do not enjoy fishing. God bless Anchise, he’d tried and never managed to make me do it as a boy. No one will convince me again.

The only part of the day that bears reliving was when Eliot tapped my shoulder and offered his hand. His mother was reading. The boys chased each other up the shore. I let him help me stand, dusted the sand from my shorts and followed him along a path into the woods.

I trailed at a distance with a titillated uncertainty, as if at any moment, the boy would check his pocket watch and slip down a hole beneath a tree. Instead of flitting away, he waited.

His wrist twisted, hand uncurled. We both stared at his long, perfect fingers for a moment. Hands that could cleanly strike a 13th. Fingers that could learn beautiful, filthy things.

I could not, in good conscience, hold hands with Eliot, not even in relative seclusion. I couldn’t afford to give him the impression that I wanted to. His father was my friend. He was half my age. There wasn’t anything to consider.

I huffed softly and pretended not to notice. Eliot’s fingers curled back into themselves as he turned and trudged a few paces ahead of me.

What did he expect? He was asking the impossible. Just walking alone with him felt criminal.

“None of us wants to go,” he mumbled.

I quickened my pace to keep up with his long-legged stride. Birds chattered and rustled the leaves overhead. Now, all I could think of was his hands.

“Especially Carlos,” he said. “He’s not going to be able to go back to sharing a room.”

Eliot glided along in my peripheral vision. My body thrummed with a pull like gravity at the nearness and distance of his orbit. Once, his fingertips grazed my arm, sending a surge of electricity through my entire system. I nearly turned and ran back to the shore.

“What if the world ends, Elio?”

It was a helpful question, wresting me back to reality, reminding me how very young he was. And how ridiculous I was forgetting the nearly 20 years of disappointment and dust that obscured his view of the world from mine.

One day, Eliot would be like me, a man in the early wither of life, silently, foolishly pining over some youth. Secretly fawning over some boy’s spring-fresh perspective, his lithe body, his vigor.

That’s all this was. My sordid reenactment of Death in Venice.

“If it ends, I want to be where you are,” he said and paused and staring through me as if I held power to keep the world in spin.

“If it ends, it won’t matter, right?”

Eliot’s demand had brought halted us at a point where the view was widest. All the lake lay open and serene. The last rays of a sinking sun orange and magenta between her ripples. Light gilding the leaves in eternal sunset.

Eliot’s mother and his brothers were specks on the other side of the lake. His father, my best, only, and oldest friend was circling the mountains, no doubt driving far too fast. All it would take was one errant turn and I’d inherit his family.

I promptly shook that thought away.

I was not safe alone with Eliot. The urge to touch was strong enough to keep my hands balled in the pockets of my shorts. His arm was an inch from mine.

American football is a barbarous, nonsensical sport to which Eliot might have been well-suited if his temperament had been different. One of the few plays that ever made sense to me was a Hail Mary pass - cast in long-armed, sightless desperation.

“You still climbing trees?” I asked with no idea where the question would land.

Eliot grinned and scrambled into the nearest big leaf maple, a tailless primate.

He smiled down, half-devil, half-child.

***

“Why the hell is your grill so clean?”

Oliver looked personally affronted by the shining silver surface and cobwebs under the lid.

“Probably because I’ve never used it,” I answered. “Bought it, at some point, because I thought it would look good out here.”

His gasp was only part theatrics.

Thus, it was decided. The Heisenberg’s final night would be a patio party.

Oliver and his sons went for the meat and brought way too much, in case I wanted to invite some ‘friends.’

The only person who would have fit that title hadn’t talked to me in months. I’d failed to rise to her ultimatum and Anaïs was scheduled to wed some east coast banker. There were no crusty feelings, but I wasn’t going to invite them to a cookout.

“It’s probably best with just us.”

Oliver’s “mystery sauce” resembled semen closely enough in color and consistency that Gail and I snickered uncontrollably as we dribbled it over the vegetable kabobs - in accordance with his majesty’s instructions.

The boys were tasked with not killing themselves or each other in the pool. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I shouted not to dive off the shallow end, it never sank in.

Eventually,I shook my head and settled back in my chaise beside Gail. We both had umbrellas in our cocktails and oversized shades on our noses. Mine were useful for concealing my scientific comparisons of her husband’s and eldest son’s physiques. Because was he straight ahead, I settled on ogling Eliot’s smooth, defined chest as he perched on the far end of the pool, kicking the water. His mind was obviously elsewhere, perhaps at the end of the world.

“I was raised in a corset,” Gail said, apropos of nothing.

She rounder and greyer than ever. Never more beautiful. Of course, I’d had two martinis and a Cosmopolitan, but it wasn’t just the alcohol admiring her. The paper lanterns’ glowed on her face and cast an unflattering view of her plump, unshaven legs in the slit of her sarong. She’d never be a classical beauty, but over those four days, I’d seen her stoop to tie her son’s shoe, cast a fishing rod, laugh at Oliver’s dumbest jokes. She was fluent in four languages. Tolerated zero shit.

Oliver was a lucky guy who had chosen well.

“Not literally, of course,” she continued. “My parents tolerated no tomfoolery. My brothers and I were always tidy, well-behaved, hair always parted just so. I never intended to have a family, but I always said if I did, I’d let my children be children.”

Her children were monkeys, but I held my tongue.

Oliver walked over and bent at the waist to present us with our plates.

“Why, thank you, sir,” Gail affected a convincing drawl. “I do declare, Mr. Perlman. The service here is unparalleled.”

Their laughter stirred up as much warmth as envy. I couldn’t begin to imagine how seventeen years of marriage connects on a subatomic level.

Shortly after 10:00 PM, Gail corralled her younger kids out of the dark and off to bed. While they performed the evening’s last rites, Oliver shouted across the patio to his eldest, “Did you tell Elio your plans for the fall?”

Eliot’s face glazed over like he’d been asked to recite the Gettysburg Address in Pig Latin.****

“He’s going to do a couple of years of community college,” Oliver announced. “Then, we’re going to look into a transfer, maybe state.”

“I’ll go get the Frisbee.”

Eliot disappeared into the house.

Oliver assured me, “He’ll warm up to it.”

We tossed the glow-in-the-dark disc back and forth in silence until Oliver hurled a long, improbable pass. Eliot chased it into the pool, splashing in loudly and paddling after it like a puppy. The laughter burst out of me while Oliver only shook his head.

When Gail returned, she served her oldest, now-dripping son his sleep warrant. Eliot wordlessly implored me for back up, as if I was man enough to contradict his mother.

“Don’t look at Elio. He can not save you,” she said. “The night belongs to adults. Go get some sleep. We’re up early.”

The four days had flown while seeming eternal.

Eliot gave up the argument and kissed his mother’s cheek. He flung the last word, “Night,” over his shoulder at me and his father with a heartbreaking nonchalance.

Oliver lifted a steel chair from the other side of the patio and carried it over his head. Gail and I watched the lanterns cast a spotlight on his shirtless chest, the exertion emphasizing how near he still was to perfection.

“Pretty, huh?” Gail smiled.

Since. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been looking, I laughed.

Oliver sat his chair on my right side. “What are you hens clucking about?”

“What else would hens talk about besides a beautiful cock?” Gail’s words.

I would never have had the gall.

I flushed as Oliver chuckled and settled in with me between them. For a while, we all gazed at the pool. The underwater lights had flicked on. The vinyl alligator had floated to the far side, lodged. beneath the diving board.

Eventually, Gail asked, “Did you tell him about Obie?”

“Oh, no. You go ahead.”

“Well, our youngest boy, who by now you know quite well, has taken it upon himself to educate his fourth-grade class in the ways of reproductive biology.”

I covered my mouth, but couldn’t keep back the snicker.

“His teachers are not amused, Mr. Perlman,” she says. “They were already concerned with his lectures on the topic, but now that he’s administering hands-on live tutorials —”

“No!”

“Oh, yes.”

Oliver stared at the pool, entranced by the alligator.

“Our boys, the younger ones, are in a GATE program. Gifted and Talented Education,” Gail explained. “Sometimes, it boggles my mind the information their classmates haven’t yet been exposed to. You should see how they look at us. Why are these people are surprised that children are naturally curious, naturally sexual? What do they expect us to do, put him in a cock cage?”

My eyes bulged and flew to her empty glass. She’d had a few drinks but might not have diced those words anyway.

“Age is a poor indicator of maturity and readiness, don’t you agree?”

“I…”

“I was 13 my first time and I never regretted it,” Gail said and pointed past me at Oliver. “Your friend over there was 20 and obsessed with the missionary position.”

His titter was dark, but he didn’t deny it.

“I fixed him right up for you, didn’t I?”

Not many topics were taboo with my parents, but her candor made my ears burn.

“I had to teach him how to dance, Elio. Have you ever seen Ollie dance?”

“I have.”

“Well, that’s as far as I could get.”

I laughed first, but mostly because of Oliver’s hurt expression. Gail cackled and Oliver eventually shook his head, smiling. “You guys are mean.”

“My point is merely—”

“We get your point,” Oliver said.

I wasn’t sure I got her point. It sounded, vaguely, as if she was encrypting permission for me to have their child. But that interpretation was liquor-soaked, as was the entire conversation. I took the reigns and forcefully altered its course.

“I’ve been wondering… Is Eliot… I don’t know the right term. ‘Special needs?’ I mean, his writing…”

They were both silent for a moment. I’d picked a tender topic.

“I don’t mean —”

“It’s all right,” Gail said, although tension boiled off Oliver. “His intellect is actually above average, but he has a condition called dysgraphia. This is the first year his teachers have seen any improvement. I presume we have you to thank for that, too.”

“Oh… I…”

“I can’t tell you how … That stunt at the school. Then, the aftermath. If he didn’t have music in his life, it might not have been an empty threat. We owe you—”****

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“We do.” Oliver took my hand.

Gail latched on to the other. Their energy seemed to flow through me in waves of dulcet warmth. She was the first to let go. Oliver raised kissed my knuckles before doing the same. I couldn’t speak.

"How big is your bed, Elio?" Gail asked. “I sense a threesome coming on here.”

I huffed a tiny chuckle at her joke, still reeling from the affection, not quite ready for levity.

Oliver laughed. “You think she’s kidding?”

Gail eased back in her chair, crossing her ankles and giggling to herself.

I agreed with Eliot. I didn’t want them to leave either.


	14. Chapter 14

Eliot sat behind the driver’s seat. I’d been avoiding his gaze since we left the house. Oliver took the passenger’s side with Gail behind him and the boys in the back.

After breakfast, we'd packed the Aerostar and were now jammed in two miles of LA’s finest: standstill traffic. The other airport-bound drivers on I-105 honked, shouted and exchanged familiar gestures. Inside our minivan remained quiet as a Hearst.

No music. No discussion. Once, Gail urged the boys to express their gratitude, but Carlos shook his head and dropped his chin in his palm, elbow on the window frame. I’d already extended the invitation to any time at which Oliver outlined his repayment plan. It was important to him, so I didn’t argue.

As it turned out, Gail had been joking. Or at least no one attempted to make her salacious prediction a reality.  
Thank God.  
I’d participated in a number of orgies (2), with varying degrees of success, and never with people I respected. Gail was a goddess but I was no more attracted to her than to my own mother, or Vimini.

Cocooned in the crypt-like silence of our final drive, an epiphany unfurled. It was as unreasonable as the initial invitation, yet there we all were. I turned to Oliver in his passenger seat.

His brow wrinkled. “Did we forget something?”

How would my life be different if I’d never revealed myself to Oliver? If I’d let Marzia be my fill that summer? I’d have remained in Italy, joined an orchestra. How would I be living? Would I like, or even recognize that version of myself? Would he still be me?

Was it better to speak or die? In a way, speaking to Oliver slaughtered the Elio Perlman who stayed safe at home. That Elio would never have found himself wanting what I wanted. Perhaps his pulse would never beat in his tongue when he spoke. Maybe after stifling his emotion for Oliver, he never suffered another wild desire. Who knows?

“_Ho un’ idea.”_

“Oh, God, Elio.” Oliver groaned. “I haven’t spoken Italian in fifteen years.”

If the answer was no, I didn’t want to say it in English and dash other hopes along with my own.

Gail offered, “_En Français_?” 

I made my suggestion in my mother tongue. She blinked, visibly deliberating. Then, she leaned between the seats and whispered it to Oliver.

His face contorted as if he couldn't choose whether to spit out a rotten grape or swallow it. He glanced back at Eliot.

“What?”

By the time we arrived at the airport, there was still no reply. Clearly, my idea was going over like a lead balloon.

I returned the van. The Heisenbergs checked in. We walked to their gate and took up a row of seats. Oliver stared through the wall while the kids bickered. Gail searched her purse, gave them each a stick of chewing gum before offering some to me and Eliot.

Then the stewardess began to board the plane. We all stood. At their mother’s behest, the children jumped on my neck. I laughed, patting their backs and telling them to be good, although it didn't seem likely.

Leaning down into Gail’s embrace was like hugging an unbaked loaf of vanilla-scented challah. She whispered, “I’m sorry. I don’t think now is the right time.”

I’d already surmised as much from Oliver’s inward retreat. I’d spent the hour since we left the car calculating the damage to our recently renewed and tenuous friendship. My eagerness had blown it.

Oliver stood at my side, watching his wife and younger boys join the mass of passengers. Eliot stood beside him, gnawing a hole in his lip. We hadn’t yet said a proper goodbye, and I didn’t want to see him cry. Ideally, they’d say it at once, we’d do a brief manhug, and they’d leave.

“_Due giorni_?” Oliver asked.

I choked out a thin, relieved laugh. “_Solo due_.”

He scratched the back of his neck and transformed his scowl into a friendlier expression. Almost a smile.

Eliot glanced between us. “What?”

“You need to say goodbye to your father,” I explained. “You’re staying two more days. If you want.”

His mouth fell wide as Oliver hugged me, stiff as an undertaker. Without another word, he walked away to join his family. Eliot watched in wild-eyed awe.

“Is that okay?” I asked.

"Yeah." He huffed a laugh and nudged me. "Yeah."

We stayed to watch the others board. Then, I took his bag and headed back to the car with Eliot bouncing backwards, grinning. “I can’t believe it.”

I tugged his arm and turned him around before he could back into a stroller.

“Holy crap,” he said, eloquently summarizing my feelings.

***

Eliot R. Heisenberg

Height: 6’ 6”  
Chest: 38”  
Waist: 30”  
Inseam: 36”  
Shoe Size: 13

Whitney ripped the page from his clipboard like a doctor with a prescription. “He could model, couldn’t he?”

I could take no credit for Eliot’s measurements or his attractiveness, but that didn’t stop the swell of pride.

The suit I commissioned wouldn’t be ready in time. So, the young man was forced to try six different cuts before emerging from the dressing room in slim-fitting, grey cashmere. The fabric was the same pale hue as his eyes, but those were barely visible behind the stormcloud curls covering his face.

Black shirt and Oxfords. No tie. Eliot held out his arms and turned in a tight circle.

“That’s the one, isn’t it?”

Whitney nodded and Eliot smiled. Of all the praises that clung to my tongue, I forbade myself to speak any. The suit was beautiful. The boy was breathtaking. I was mute, with crazy waves rolling through my veins, and an animal urge to rip away every stitch.

Is that how it was for Oliver during is valiant, if brief, resistance. Did I cause him the same exhilarated, filthy, exalted, debased sense of a man drowning in holy water? Did he wonder how long before my fickle interest faded and left him even a bigger fool?

***

Eliot watched with evident fascination as the technician trimmed his cuticles.

“First manicure?” I asked.

He nodded studying the dainty fingers on his huge hands.

“Good?”

He shrugged. “What color is she going to use?”

The woman stopped her work and looked between us, awaiting the answer.

“No color,” I said. “Do you want a color?”

I hadn’t even considered it. Greats like David Bowie, Little Richard had made femininity Rock and Roll. 

“Eliot, do you want your nails painted?”

“My dad would flip.”

“Your dad’s not here.”

“Whatever you think.”

_Protégé._  
From the Latin _protegere,_ meaning to cover in front.  
To the French _proteger_   
To protect.

My protégé admired his freshly-lacquered, modestly French-tipped nails. Not long enough to interfere with his guitarwork. His heel began tapping again before he looked at me and asked, “How many inches?”

“Relax,” I said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Not that I was an expert, but I had some experience and a concept.

“I just…”

“I won’t let him clip off your ears.”

José had been cutting my hair for six years. I wouldn’t have trusted Eliot’s curls to anyone else.  
The kid sighed and nodded, but didn’t appear much relieved. The last thing I wanted was to pressure him.

“Look, you don’t have to do anything —”

“No. You’re right. It’s a little out of control.”

Eliot ran both hands through his hair with a sensuality that compelled me to pick up a magazine and stare at a Rolex ad while the flames coursed down my spine like I was already attached to the stake. On a scale of 1 to damnation, how wrong is it to want a 17-year-old?

When José called him away, Eliot glanced over his shoulder like a man destined for the gallows. His appointment granted me a few minutes to collect and interrogate myself.

Did I really actually want to take this kid to bed? Was I attracted to his body? Or his talent? I couldn’t overlook that he was Oliver’s son and that he seemed to find me irresistible. If Eliot was just any kid, would I be having this conversation with myself?

Twenty minutes later, Eliot sighed in the mirror, turning to each side and running a palm over his freshly shorn locks. His hair was still quite long in the front, but he winced as José swept his locks into a dustpan.

“It’ll grow back if you hate it,” I assured him. “But it’s good. Suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The haircut made Eliot’s face visible, which was an improvement on perfection. On our way out of the salon, José, that asshole, offered a lollipop which Eliot did not decline.  
With the stick hanging from his mouth, he smirked and asked, “Can I drive?”

It would take a tank to crush the Range Rover. I didn’t do a lot of thinking before I tossed him the keys.

“Seriously?”

“Should I have said no?”

“No! No.” He skipped to the driver’s side.

I smiled at his enthusiasm but did not neglect my seatbelt.

***

Eliot turned out to be a better driver than I am: lead-footed, but less prone to distraction.

Aided by the magic of a few phone calls and a willingness to pay a last-minute bonus, we found ourselves at a photographer’s Burbank studio. I couldn’t find a makeup artist on such short notice, but she assured me we’d be fine.

Eliot changed into his suit and let Darla fix his jacket collar.

“You look handsome.”

“Thanks.”

A complete stranger, freer with him than I was. She directed him to a stool on the plain white backdrop and began snapping at close range.

“Just do whatever feels good, Eliot.”

I could imagine saying those words under very different circumstances.

Eliot studied the floor, twisting away every time Darla aimed for his left side.

“So, what are you into?” she asked.

He glanced at me. “Um… music.”

“That’s cool. Do you play instruments?”

“Guitar, mostly. But some piano, whenever I can find one.”

I’d forgotten about Oliver’s estate sale. We’d made up, but he still had to answer for the way he treated his son.

“That’s pretty cool,” Darla said, still clicking away. “You like video games at all?”

“Definitely.”

“What do you think of the new Kong?”

“It’s crazy good.” Eliot brightened.

Darla caught a burst of shots. “Why don’t you tell me your favorite games?”

I stifled the senseless pang of jealousy while he listed titles I’d never heard and Darla captured the untouchable glow of youth. There was a whole part of his life that was inaccessible, as unknowable as if he’d spent time in space. After a moment, she stopped shooting.

“All right, Eliot. Would you please wiggling like a little kid and let me get your whole face?”

“I just… Can you just get this side?” He turned his left cheek.

“Why?”

Eliot glanced at me and winced. “Just these …”

“Your beauty marks?”

“They’re moles. I look like—”

“You look great,” Darla said. “Mr. Perlman, would you back me up here?”

It was unfathomable that he could see himself as anything other than flawless. He was either kidding or fishing for compliments. “You look fine.”

“Looks like there’s dirt on my face.” He rolled back his shoulders. “And this… I don’t know about this suit.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I asked.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Darla said, holding up a hand against my protest. “You can change out of that, if you grant me access to your entire face.”

“Wait a minute.” I was footing the bill and growing tired of the whole thing. “That is a five hundred dollar suit. Are you telling me you’d rather look like I dragged you in off the street?”

“It’s nice, but —”

“Nice?”

“It doesn’t feel like me.”

“You either trust me or you don’t, Eliot.”

He blinked, stunned by my ultimatum. Even I realized I was being unreasonable, but I’d backed onto a ledge.

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, Elio. The suit is amazing, but can we just try a few in regular clothes?”

It was my project. The photographs would belong to me. Eliot’s appearance would reflect on me. Why should I let this kid, who was already driving me insane, derail my concept?

“Please?”

Darla was waiting. I finally threw up my hands. “Fine.”

Eliot returned from the car with his clothes. As soon as he entered the studio, he peeled out of the suit jacket and hung it on a chair. Even though Darla had a changing room, he began unbuttoning his shirt. I clenched my jaw and stared, unblinking, at the backdrop.

***

“I really like the suit,” Eliot said turning in the passenger seat to face me. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing. I just wanted to try something different.”

My tantrum was over. I’d been an ogre, and now the kid knew I was capable of being an irrational prick. It would have been a good time to apologize. Instead, I asked, “You hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good.”

“Should I put the suit back on?”

“It’s not that fancy,” I said. “Did you want fancy?”

“Whatever you—”

“I want to show you this place.”

La Golondrina, on Olvera Street, wasn’t popular back then. They mostly catered to the Mexican and smattering of Italian families who lived in the neighborhood. When I missed home, I’d drive across town to soak up the atmosphere, enjoy a twenty-dollar meal, and leave a fifty-dollar tip. They were always happy to see me.

Carmela, the owner’s wife greeted us at the door with the same precise affection Mafalda used to show. She cleared a booth table, gave us menus, and asked about my work, all while eyeing Eliot. I’d been to the place fifty times in the last decade but had never brought a guest. Just like if I ever went home, I’d be traveling alone. I’d already answered all of Carmela’s inevitable questions about wife and family. Apparently, she treasured my business enough to keep her present curiosity silent.

She left us and my dinner date studied the old world decor.

“What is this music?”

It was Claudio Villa, one of Mafalda’s favorites. I hadn’t heard the song in years.

“I like it.” Eliot smiled and snapped along to the swing.

I pressed my knuckles to my lips, scouring my mind for another topic we held in common.

“Your dad seems better.”

I regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

Eliot nodded. “Yeah, he’s taking that therapy stuff pretty seriously. Still doesn’t really talk to me.”

“Do you mind me asking why that is?”

He blanched.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to, Elio. I just don’t want you to hate me.”

“I’m not going to... Don’t tell me, all right? Just…”

I snapped for the waiter who scurried over and took our orders. This was followed immediately by a visit from Gianni, the owner who brought a complimentary bottle of Chianti and turned over our glasses.

“_Bentornato, Boss. Sempre un piacere vedervi._” He poured for me, smirked and winked. “_Per quel ragazzo_?”

His tone was all mischievous accusation. Eliot waited for a translation that I wouldn’t be furnishing. Gianni had asked what drink for the lad. He did not inquire whether Eliot was a relation or an associate. He’d already drawn his own conclusions. I could read in his amused expression that Giani had sniffed me out, as my father had done the summer of Oliver and my ‘special friendship.’

“_Lascia la bottiglia_,” I said.

“_Certamente, signore._”

“_Per favore_.” I attempted a smile, morbidly certain I’d never return.

Gianni placed the bottle in the ice bucket, bowed to me and even deeper for Eliot. I wouldn’t have felt more exposed if I’d entered the restaurant naked.

“You want me to kick his ass?” Eliot grinned and put up his dukes. “Because I will.”

“Funny.”

“That guy said something to you didn’t like, right?”

Was I transparent or could he just read me? “No. I’m fine.”

“Okay. Well, may I, please, have some of your wine? _Per favore_,” he said with a decent accent for an American. “That means, please, right?”

Alcohol was not our friend. How many bottles had I split with Oliver before…  
But I wasn’t Oliver and neither was Eliot. I poured him a few ounces and would drink no more than that myself. Eliot drained his glass, sat it on the table and didn’t request more.

“So, your parents don’t mind that you’re a homo?”

I chuckled. His frankness was as comforting as unsettling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Should I not ask that?”

“You can ask me anything,” I said and then shoved a piece of garlic bread into my mouth to filter the tenderness. “They just wanted me to be happy.”

“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

Oliver had once said as much.

“Do they know about me?” Eliot asked.

“I don’t really talk to them much.”

“Why?”

“I’ve changed a lot,” I said. “Not even sure I'm still their son. I wouldn't know what to say to them anymore.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s pretty stupid, Elio. Your parents want you happy and you take away the one thing that could make them happy. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius?”

“Who said that?”

“You are, right?”

“I doubt it.”

Had Oliver described me that way? Suddenly uneasy with the adoring scrutiny from across the table, I ruthlessly changed the topic.

“Would you want to model?”

“God, no. I heard that.”

“Why not?” I asked. “It’s good money.”

Eliot shuddered. “I catch enough shit as it is.”

“You know, you kind of asked for the flack at school.”

“I wasn’t asking for flack,” he said. “I just stopped hiding.”

“Okay. But you don’t have to paint a target on your chest.”

“What does that mean?”

Before I could reply, our plates arrived. Eliot raised a brow at my food.

“You don’t eat vegetables, do you?”

“I ate enough vegetables as a child.”

He’d ordered a salad and steamed broccoli with his gnocchi. The real delight in the meal came from his reactions.

“Mm. Mm. Oh my God, Elio.”

I wiped my mouth with the linen napkin, grateful for the table cloth. “You do enjoy eating, don’t you?”

“My mother says I live to eat,” he said around a mouth of food. “Which is not true, but what people fail to realize is that I’m probably still growing.”

That had actually occurred to me, along with other uncivil questions of proportion and genetics. Was he hung like Oliver? I dropped my napkin beside my plate and settled back in the booth.

“You’re not going to finish that?”

“Be my guest.”

Eliot scraped the ziti from my plate, finished everything, and ordered tiramisu.

***

Eliot’s Satchmo impression was a far cry from the old man’s charming growl, but I couldn’t stop smiling. He sang all the way home, trying and failing. To get me to chime in on the chorus.

“You don’t want to hear me sing, kid.”

We parked out front and entered the house for the first time since we’d left for the airport that morning. I’d religiously limited my alcohol consumption, yet my head was lightly spinning as I unlocked the door and let Eliot enter first, hands in his pockets. In the moonlit foyer, I pinned my back to the door. He stopped at the bottom stair casting a coquettish gaze right out of a 50s film.

My heart slammed against my ribs as if it would break free and slither across the floor to him. “Do you need anything before I…”

“You going to your studio?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come down with you?”

“No.”

“Well, can we play a little before you go?”

“Play?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at the parlor. “Would you play that song?”

“Oh. Sure.”

I sat at the piano and cleared my throat. I hummed Voglio Vivere Così under my breath.

“Sing it, Elio.”

So I sang.

_Và... cuore mio da fiore a fior_   
_con dolcezza e con amor_   
_vai tu per me ..._   
_Và... che la mia felicità_   
_vive sol di realtà vicino a te..._

As the final chord sustained, I glanced over my shoulder and found Eliot reclined on the sofa, ankles crossed, hands folded over his belly. He sighed and requested another one.

_Parlez-moi d'amour._ My mother’s favorite song.

It was after ten PM. Time to end the day before the late hour took the role of alcohol and irrevocably changed the night.

“All right, Eliot.”

He stood and joined me on the piano bench. I scooted aside to make space between us as he played the opening riff to Sittin on the Dock of the Bay. I took over and he let me play while he sang in my ear with more heart-melting conviction than any teenager could have earned.

I whistled the last few bars pretending not to notice his smile.

“Why don’t you play something for me?” I stood and promptly distanced myself.

Eliot’s song consisted of three chords, two verses and a refrain:

Please, please, please

Rather than speak a reply, I dug through my albums and played Morrissey’s Please Please Please, Let Me Get What I Want This Time.

Haven’t had a dream in a long time…

Eliot shrugged. “I guess that wasn’t very original, huh?”

“I was trying to show you that it’s timeless,” I said and played James Brown’s, Please Please Please.

When the song was over, I put on some Sam Cooke and settled on the sofa. Eliot stood in the middle of the floor, listening, as if I’d commissioned a miniature, clothed, and breathing statue of David for my sitting room. It was late and I was too tired not to stare.

I should have seen him coming, but I was too slow to run before he sat, pulled my arm over his shoulder, curled his feet behind him and rested his head on my chest.

My conscience screamed for me to go. My body leaned forward and kissed his hair, still minty from Jose’s product. We both hummed along with You Send Me.

At first, I thought it was infatuation  
But oh, it’s lasted so long

I informed him that the song was released the same year as Voglio Vivere Così, halfway around the world. He rested a hand on my thigh.

Would we have sat cuddled up like that with Oliver in the room? Was that still the criterion for how close to be with Eliot? Oliver had entrusted me with his son for two days. Could I not go two days without crossing the line?

Gently shuddering and growing stiff, I trapped Eliot’s hand and urged it closer to my knee. That wasn’t better. I wouldn’t have sat with him that way if anyone else was present. Then again, I’d never held hands with anyone in public, except for once with Anaïs at the opera.

I waited until the music was finished, then whispered, “Good night, Eliot.”

Thankfully, he didn’t argue.

***

By the following morning, I’d devised a new plan:  
There was no reason he couldn’t attend LACC and live with me. We’d never more physical than we were the night before. It was cliche then as it is today, but the kid made me feel alive in ways I’d never been.

He bounded into the kitchen around eleven, I’d toasted PopTarts and sat the plates on the table.

“Can we eat something else?”

“Sure.”

I had no other ideas, but there were still eggs and asparagus from Gail’s shopping excursion. I scrambled while Eliot diced and sauteed onions and garlic. He steamed the asparagus, and breakfast turned out a damn sight better than toaster pastries.

“Hey,” he said as I cleared the table. “Do you mind if I use your cologne?”

“You like it?”’

He pressed his face to the center of my chest. "It's amazing."

“It’s aftershave," I said through a blast of heat. "Are you shaving yet?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah, of course, you can. I’ll leave it outside your door.”

I slipped the plates into the dishwasher. Eliot scampered off to shower and dress. For a few moments, I stood in the kitchen with my body tingling like I’d been romancing an electrical socket. That sensation only intensified when the registrar at Los Angeles Community College confirmed there was still time to enroll.

***

Anaïs floated among her guests like a vision. Eventually, she made her way to us, hugging me close enough to peck my cheek and whisper, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Her perfume was honey and vanilla. The whole experience imposed a vague aftertaste of regret that passed the moment she smiled up at my Plus One.

She took his giant hand between her dainty fingers. “You’re Eliot, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, God, did he just ma’am me, Elio?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m kidding.” Anaïs smiled. “You two, enjoy yourselves.”

With that, she glided away to greet the next guests.

“She’s stunning.”

I nodded.

“She wishes it was you.”

That was a statement out of Gail’s quiver. “Why would you say that?”

“Impression.” Eliot shrugged. “Did you ever… you and her?”

I felt a strong temptation to evade or lie. I told the truth and tried to quantify, “Yes, we did, but it wasn’t…”

“Like with you and my dad?”

I’d been thinking more recent, but let the topic rest.

The reception band was the pit from the LA Theatre Center production of Hairspray: world-class musicians who could play anything. The microphone was open for toasts and hammed-up performances dedicated to the lucky couple. It was, after all, a show business wedding.

It was the kind of gathering I hated. The only reason I’d decided to attend was spilling crumbs from a paté cracker down his crisp, new dress shirt. Thankfully, I didn’t have to beg or barter to get him back into the suit.

Anaïs’ friend from Columbia Records was in the ballroom, along with countless other industry names no one knows: the people who sign the checks and make the stars. There was enough clout in the place to make anyone dizzy.

I hadn’t even rehearsed a song with him. If Eliot blew his shot, he’d never know.

“What do you want to sing?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Pick a love song.”

“I don’t know these people.”

“You don’t need to know them to sing.”

Eliot shrugged and I strongly considered wringing his neck.

“Do you know Nature Boy by Nat King Cole?”

“I guess.”

“You know it or you don’t.” It was on the list of singers and songs I’d sent.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

The microphone was still cooling from a scorching, gospel rendition of Stevie Wonder’s Sunshine of My Life. I gently nudged Eliot toward the stage. Like a good duckling, he kept walking.

I commandeered the piano, held my breath and launched.

Eliot sang the entire song with his eyes closed and both hands curled around the microphone stand. By the time he released his final note, I wasn’t the only person in the room in love with him.

There were sighs and “wows” and a sweet, reverent silence before thunderous applause.

I nodded my thanks to the band as a swarm surged toward him. I made my way to the rescue, but the Anaïs yanked me into a waltz.

“He is an absolute heart breaker, Elio.”

I didn’t need to be told. She ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek, champagne sweet on her breath. I’d taken ballroom dance in my teens. Anaïs danced since she was three. The conversation wouldn’t have flowed any easier if we’d been standing still.

“You know, Mina wants a meeting,” she said.

That wasn’t much of a surprise either. I was, however, startled by Eliot’s sunken expression. He towered over his crowd of admirers watching me dance with Anaïs.

I would have given anything to finish the dance with him in my arms. What I didn’t want was to shatter his chances before they’d taken root. At any industry party, chances are that 40% of the men are gay or homo-flexible. No one would care. However, in 1999 the gay performers in any room had one thing in common: none of them were out. At that point, the only out people in the business were Elton and Ellen.

Anaïs husband cut in and made a comment about Eliot’s singing before he whisked her away.

As I made my way to Eliot’s aide, I was intercepted by Mina who wanted to pin down details for a meeting. By the time I escaped her clutches, the golden boy had vanished.

I stood at the edge of the ballroom, scanning the place. The concierge hadn’t seen him. I searched the hotel, dreading the call to Oliver and Gail to explain that I’d lost their son.

Half an hour later, I found him on the loading dock stairs with an empty champagne glass.

“Are you drunk?”

“Are _you_ drunk?”

Intent on being a good role model and maintaining self-control, I’d faithfully stuck to my one drink quota. “All right, Sinatra. Let’s go.”

“Why don’t you go back and dance some more? I’ll wait here until it’s over.”

“Come on.” I offered my hand.

“Just go dance, Elio. You’re good at it.”

I sat on the step beside him, silent for a moment before I said, “Why don’t we go home?”

***

Eliot slept on the drive home, freeing his biggest admirer to steal a thousand glances of the light and shadow playing over his face. I parked in the garage and decided we’d both sleep in the car before I woke him.

As I cut the engine, he smacked his lips and croaked, “I’m not jealous.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t mad that you were dancing with your friend.”

“OK.”

“I was… It’s stupid.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I was upset… that I’ll never have a wedding,” he said. “I’ll always be a guest. Maybe the best man. My little brothers will get married. My cousins.”

“You ever been to a commitment ceremony?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why?”

“If it was the same, why would they call it something different?”

“Why does it matter so much, Eliot?”

“Maybe it’s just because I can’t.”

We sat and stewed in his sorrow for a few more minutes.

“You want to go inside?”

Eliot followed, shuffling his new shoes. The foyer was the best space in the house for what I had in mind. I left the chandelier dark and said, “Wait right here.”

I put on the 45 of my favorite waltz: Schubert’s Bminor. By the muted moonlight through the glassdoor, I offered my hand. My meaning must have been clear, but Eliot tilted his head in beguiling confusion.

“Will you dance with me?”

“Oh. I don’t really —”

The music wouldn’t last. If it was going to happen, I’d needed to act. I pulled him close by the waist.

“All right?”

Eliot giggled, clumsy and self-conscious, hiding his face in my hair.

“Just relax.” I tapped his back. “Let me guide you.”

He tensed even more.

Dancing with Oliver was a whirlwind of rhythmless, haphazard motion. He was the only other dance partner I’d had who was six and half feet tall, and twice my weight. There was no point trying to lead Oliver. He danced as if he couldn’t hear the music. I’d had to ignore my own sense of time and give over to his meterless whims.

I counted up into Eliot’s ear. _One-two-three_, _one-two-three,_ accent on the downbeat. We drifted across the marble floor long after the only sounds were our breath and shuffling shoes.

I drew him closer and brushed my lips over his smooth, warm throat. The faint scent of my own aftershave blended with his sweat. His breath hitched, bringing me to myself. I stepped back, and clapped for the imaginary pianist whose recital had ended twenty minutes earlier.

“Good night, Eliot?”

“I’m not sleeping tonight,” he said. “My flight is in 8 hours. I’m staying up with you.”

“With me?” I laughed, claiming a bit more distance. “That suggests that I’m staying up with you.”

“You are.”

“I am? Well, then.”

I led him to the balcony. Eliot kicked off shoes and socks and stacked his bare feet on the table between us. I fought the temptation to bring them into my lap.

“Why don’t you tell me about school?”

“Well, Elio. School sucks,” he said. “As you’ve probably noticed, I’m the dumbest member of my family.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I am, Elio. Sometimes, I do things… Stupid things.”

Before I could go on arguing on his behalf, Eliot dropped his feet from the table.

“You know how somebody painted my locker?”

I nodded, expecting him to tell me he’d attacked the kid. It didn’t seem like Eliot to lose his temper, but I’d have been okay with him bashing some bigot.

Whatever he did must have been bad. He was already wincing. “You won’t tell them?”

“Of course not.”

“It was me.”

I took a moment to process the confession. “You vandalized your own locker? Why?”

“The same reason I made that announcement," he said. "I don’t want to waste my whole life hiding behind some woman and her kids. I’ve seen what happens to people when they do that. They wind up resenting their families, and hating themselves, and regretting everything. I just want to find someone to love, who loves me, and spend every day trying to make him smile.”

"That's..."

The whole conversation was more than I was prepared for. I walked over to the railing to catch my breath. A heartbeat later, Eliot curled an arm around mine and rested his cheek on my shoulder.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Possibly.”

Neither of us was sane. He stood upright and I stroked a thumb over his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut as I traced the tip of one finger along the constellation on his cheek. With a hand on his neck, I drew him close enough to kiss each of his beauty marks. Near enough to breathe in the warm scent of his skin. I placed my other hand on his heaving chest, attempting to calm him like a startled colt.

“Elio.”

“It’s okay. We’ll take our time.”

There wasn’t much of it left. His flight was so soon. In my mind, we were already naked and rolling on the floor. I’d take care to follow his pace. Stop whenever he wanted. Do whatever he’d allow. I took that silent oath and moistened my lips. So far beyond ready to finally taste.

He whispered into my mouth, “Elio, I have a boyfriend.”

The words took a second to register. I let out a bitter chuckle, shaking with the effort of giving him space.

“I’m sorry.”

“No," I said backing away. "It’s great.”

“Elio.”

“I, uh… Long day, right? I’m going to— Good night, Eliot.”


	15. Chapter 15

As promised, Eliot kept me awake. Alone in my bed with a humiliating erection I refused to touch.

Was it Peter Johnson? Or that Caleb boy? Eliot had mentioned a few boys. Given vague descriptions. He’d never claimed one of them was his boyfriend. I’d reread his letters often enough to know.

Eliot had thrown his own Hail Mary. Whether this boyfriend existed or not, this was his way of telling me I’d pushed too far. Oliver had trusted me with his kid and I’d nearly attacked him.

I threw an arm over my eyes, longing for sleep or death.

***

Around dawn, I crept to the kitchen for caffeine. Already seated at the breakfast nook, Eliot greeted me with a sheepish gaze. His grey, sunken eye sockets matched the packed bags in the foyer.

He’d poured us both OJ and heaped runny scrambled eggs onto two plates. “I didn’t know how you like them.”

“Cooked,” I said.

Eliot chuckled half-heartedly and pushed his egg soup around his plate with a fork.

“Do I have any PopTarts left?”

“Pop-Tarts aren’t real food, Elio.”

I sat. “Is this real food?”

“Just eat it.” He watched until I did.

The eggs were runny, but not bad.

Eliot began, “About last —”

“No.”

“I just wanted to--”

“Thanks for the breakfast, Eliot.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

I surprised myself with a completely genuine smile. The kid knocked the air from my lungs with one of his own. There was nothing to talk about. The night was over. That moment of insanity had passed and wouldn't repeat. That I was my pact and my apology.

When he started to hum the KitKat jingle, I added the bassline. We sang variations until Eliot started banging his plate with his fork, pounding the kickdrum beats on the table with a fist. Somehow, we ended the madness on the same note, orchestrated with no more signal than a nod.

***

We stood shoulder to shoulder at the window overlooking Gate C3 watching his plane back up to the platform.

**“**Your life kind of sucks,” Eliot said in flawless Gail Heisenberg style. “I want you to take better care of yourself.”

I laughed.

“I mean it. You’re not getting younger and you have nobody here looking out for you.” His clear eyes were sober, hands on my shoulders. “Fairy godson orders.”

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“My mother doesn’t do discreet.”

“I've noticed.”

I saluted and offered my hand. Eliot shook it with professional firmness. I didn't know the next time I'd see him, so I allowed myself to tug him into a brief, solid mentor’s embrace, tapping his back a few times for added appropriateness.

He boarded and took off.

I watched until the plane had vanished into a perfect blue-grey sky, leaving me as small and powerless as I've ever felt.

Walking back to my car, I made a few calls and booked an emergency appointment. Everyone I knew either snorted coke or had a shrink. Cocaine makes me nauseous. Therapy was good enough for the Heisenbergs, I was willing to try.

The doctor's outgoing message suggested I call 911 if I was a danger to myself or others. I nearly had been, but Eliot was safe now. Flying home. I was still insanely wishing the night before had gone some other way. Not that I’d kept quiet, but that he had. Told me about the boyfriend after…

It was time to seek help.

The question was how much to divulge on the first visit? I could make the shrink drag it out of me. Or I could waltz in and confess to being Humbert Humbert pining after a child. I hadn’t broken any laws, and to my credit, I wanted it to stop. The worst that could happen was the guy would look at me like I was crazy. That was, after all, why I was entering the building.

“Elio?”

I stopped and searched the parking lot.

“Elio Perlman?”

Clint (whose last name I’d forgotten). All I recalled was that he was a cellist and had an exquisite body. We’d met after a session years earlier, gotten trashed and enjoyed a vigorous evening. From the smirk on his face, Clint was entertaining similar memories.

“Hey. How’ve you been?” he asked, doling out the customary handshake and a brief hug.

“I’ve been…”

I nodded and hoped a nonanswer would suffice.

“Crazy seeing you, man.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Crazy.”

He told me where he was performing, looked me over from top to toe and, of all things, invited me surfing.

“Oh, I…”

“Of course.” Clint nodded. “Some other time. It’s good to see you, Elio.”

He was walking away. The moment had passed. I took two steps toward the building.

The thing is, I wasn’t clinically insane. I wasn’t lurking behind bushes trying to sneak glimpses of small children. What I lacked was adequate adult company.

“Clint!”

***

I’d never been surfing, possessed no gear and zero interest in learning. I sat in the sand while Clint bounded to the water's edge, lifting an athletic blonde in his arms and jamming his tongue down her throat.

That was my cue to leave and I would have done so if it weren’t for the girl who chose that moment to plop down beside me. I say girl, but she was my age. 

“You a friend of Clint?” She shouted over the crashing ocean, holding shoulder-length, chestnut waves out of olive green eyes.

I nodded and obliged her conversation of the small talk, hollered due to the noisy tide: names, professions, connections to Clint were spoken directly into one another's ears. An instant, if false, intimacy.

Caroline was, as it turned out, an avid surfer with a sinus infection. She was also the older sister of Clint’s roommate’s girlfriend and happy to point out the bouncing specks among the waves. She was in marketing. She was easy to shout to and marginally pretty in a round-faced, unassuming way. I wasn’t sorry I’d spent the day at the beach talking to her instead of a therapist.

Needless to say, I didn’t mention Eliot. That alone was a sign of improvement.

Before sunset, the surfers came in, pitched a beach bonfire and someone started plunking on an old, untuned guitar.

“Doug, you suck," Clint said, wrapped around his girl. "Pass that thing to Elio.” 

The instrument made its way to my hands. I was more than happy to tune it, but in no particular mood to entertain.

“Know any Neil Diamond?” Clint called out, with a grin and a wink.

It would have been easy enough to decline, but easier to play the damn song. Nothing fancy. Sweet Caroline in D major. The others sang and the goofy look on her face alerted that my new friend was smitten.

I’ll never understand why girls go apeshit for a guy who can play the guitar. It’s as simple as learning a few fingerings and possessing a bit of rhythm. 

***

I picked up the phone on the third ring. “Perlman.”

“Hey.”

My pulse jumped, my voice remained steady. "Hey." 

“Just wanted you to know, I got home all right.”

“Good,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said. “Hey, listen. Where’d you put my aftershave?”

“Oh, I, um…”

“You took it, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” Eliot snickered and then soberly asked, “You going out?”

“Um... yeah.”

“Oh. Cool. Have fun.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Call me later?”

“I’ll try.”

***

Dinner, a show, ice cream with Caroline. So easy.

I drove her home. She leaned over and pecked my cheek.

Before she could leave the car, I caught her arm and stupidly tried to give her the kiss I'd intended for Eliot.

She let out a dazed cackle, clutched her blouse and said, “Wow.”

There would be no drama with Caroline. And no sparks. Just easy.

***

When Darla’s headshots arrived, I sat for too long, staring at my favorite.

Eventually, I slid them all into an envelope addressed to Mina’s attention at Columbia Records.

***

My sixth date with Caroline was at a Thai meditation center. After, we met her friends for wheatgrass smoothies.

“Eliot would love this,” I remarked after the first, surprisingly pleasant sip.

“Eliot?" she asked. "Your friend’s son?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You mention him a lot.”

“Do I?”

Caroline tapped lightly on the table and sighed as one of her friends launched into a story about a SCUBA expedition that had uncovered an assortment of ancient Samurai urns.

By the end of the conversation, I had an excuse to call my dad. He'd find the discovery significant, even if we only spoke for 60 seconds. We talked for over an hour, during which he wouldn’t stop saying how much he appreciated my call. So, I promised to do it more often.

“I love you, son.”

“Love you, too, Papa.”

We hung up. I settled back in my armchair, revelling in the echo of his voice. On a whim, I called Eliot. Noon was a sweet spot in the day for him: after school, before band practice. I usually caught him eating.

As expected, he was impressed that I’d called my dad and asked for the boring details. Then, he fell quiet.

“Eliot? You there?”

“Do you hear that?”

I’d done my best to ignore the unearthly shrieking in the background until he drew it to my attention.

“Carlos started playing the sax.”

“No joke?”

“Yeah.Says he’s going to join my band.”

“That’s great,” I said, although it was incredibly painful to listen to.

The line clicked and Oliver said, “Hello.”

“Oh, hey.”

“Should I hang up?” Eliot asked.

“No, I’ll be quick.”

“How’s it going, Oliver?”

“Going good. Picked up golf.”

“Yeah?” I had no trouble imagining that.

“Manuscript’s coming along.”

“That’s good.”

“Gail says hey. She’s grading.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

He did, she chirped in the background.

“All right, I’m going to go.”

“Good talking with you,” I said.

“Eliot, you don’t run up Elio’s phone bill.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

Oliver hung up.

“I should go.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” I said. “Tell me about school.”

He’d narrowly eked out a passing grade in Math. The outlook was bleaker in Creative Writing. 

“Let me know if I can help.”

“You want to do my homework?”

I chuckled and stacked my feet on the coffee table.

“You still seeing that girl?”

“She’s a woman, but yes.”

“Blonde, right? You like the blondes, huh?”

I chuckled, declining to reply.

“You’re not going to ask, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m an open book."

“You’re a banned book, Eliot.”

He laughed. “I like that.”

“You would.”

He’d received the suit and was planning to wear it to a friend’s graduation. I didn’t ask if he meant the boyfriend.

We talked about food, and work, and the lyrics to the Prince song, 1999. Eliot asked whether he should start wearing eyeshadow.Then his bassist, Nico, showed up. I wondered if Nico was the boyfriend, but I didn’t ask.

I sat around for a while after we’d hung up. My choices were silence or to call Caroline.

***

With her moral support, I braved the bustle of holiday shoppers and procured remote control helicopters for Carlos and Obie, a massive Prada handbag for Gail and an antique shaving kit for Oliver. According to Eliot, his dad was growing a “scraggly mess” of a beard. I hoped he’d appreciate the gag gift.

I already knew what to give Eliot for Hannukah, but while we were perusing the offerings in Guitar Center, my attention was drawn away by a mildly-pregnant Anaïs Smith-Rogen.

She smiled like the sun and kissed my cheeks. Generous to a fault, she treated Caroline to the same greeting, as well as a rousing, “_Chag Urim Sameach._**”**

Caroline looked at me. I translated, “Happy Hannukah.”

“Oh, I’m not--”

“How’ve you been?” I asked Anaïs’ face, ignoring her belly.

She cupped the bump with her arm and said, “Well, we had a little scare in the beginning.”

I didn’t want to hear the story. I didn’t want Caroline to hear the story. I also knew it would be wrong to flee the store. I scratched the back of my neck and Anaïs read the hint. She wrapped it up with, “But everything’s fine now.”

That woman could still read me. We would have been so good together. Why couldn't I have just loved her? My heart is, unquestionably, an idiot.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Anaïs said and shook Caroline’s hand before she left, sparing us an additional hug.

Caroline waited until my old friend had disappeared into the crowd before she asked, “How long were you together?”

“A couple of months.”

“You leave an impression, don’t you?”

I shrugged and she took my hand. Staking her claim. Simple as that. No eye batted. No one stared.

It could never have been that easy with Eliot. If I so much as touched him in public, everyone would feel entitled to our story. That concern was moot. He had someone. I had someone. It was time to get over it and get on with my life.

“You okay?” Caroline interrupted my reverie.

“I’m great.”

To prove it, I kissed her right there in the middle of the store. A few fellow shoppers smiled, but no one called me a cradle-robbing lunatic.

When I located the Tascam four-track recorder, Caroline’s eyes went wide. “Whoa. That’s a little pricey.”

“Well, he is my best friend.”

“An 18-year-old is your best friend, Elio?”

I scratched my hair to diffuse some of the tightness in my chest. She was obviously right. I'd let the whole attachment to Eliot grow out of control. I bought him a ukulele instead.

***

Professor Perlman’s weekly advice had mellowed into adages and anecdotes. Occasionally, he forgot names. I listened as closely to the sound of his voice as to the details.

Since my father’s health wasn’t stable enough for travel and my mother wouldn’t fly Transatlantic without him, I began to think of going home to record some of his stories: how he met my mother, the day I was born. Maybe he'd even tell me about that friend he once mentioned.

Caroline kept me on the fence. If I went to Italy, I’d have to tell her. If I told her without issuing an invitation, she’d be offended. If I took her, it would send a signal. So, I put off the decision to go see my parents until I was ready to take Caroline along with me.

***

By the time we came in from the New Year’s meditation and stone burning ceremony, it was nearly 2AM. There were two messages on the machine: the first from my parents, wishing a happy year in every language they could think of. The second was from Eliot:

“If the world ends," he spoke softly. "I just want you to know I love you.”

Caroline attempted a smile that looked more like nausea. “Sensitive, isn’t he?”

“You know. Y2K.”

If she hadn’t been there, I would have called him back. But I deleted both messages and followed her to bed.

***

January 2, 2000, I returned to Guitar Center, bought the four-track recorder, and shipped it overnight mail.

***

On Valentine’s night, Caroline sat the salad bowl in the center of the table. “What are we listening to?”

“New band,” I said, neglecting to state that it was a practice tape from one of Eliot’s garage sessions.

I’d already decided not to mention him again until she met him and learned for herself how a great he was. By then, I’d have worked through my crazy and everything would be fine. 

Caroline and I ate in our customary silence. Before we’d finished, she put down her fork, wearing an expression that gave ample warning.

“You know, I’ve been thinking, Elio. Cathy and Oscar were together for two months. They just knew, you know?”

I knew. Her sister had propped her up for this confrontation. At 37, Caroline was a year older than me. If I wasn’t interested in marriage and kids, she’d already wasted eight months curating me.

“Do you want all that?" she asked, voice warbling. "Do you want it with me?”

Despite my painful heart palpitations, the easy answer was obvious.


	16. Chapter 16

At the sudden drop in cabin pressure, my stomach rushed to meet my feet. The captain apologized about the turbulence and I grumbled profanity under my breath. As if it was a mere roller coaster and we were still tethered to the ground, Eliot laughed and bumped his knee against mine. I knocked his elbow from the armrest.

“Bono?" he frowned, looking up from his Irish Times review. "That’s kind of weird comparison, right?”

“It’s a compliment,” I said, shutting my eyes against the next tremor.

So far, Eliot’s critiques were favorable. It remained to be seen how he’d react to cold criticism.

“But do I actually sound like him?” He asked.

“Not really,” I said. "You sing with a similar passion."

With Eliot's looks and his talent, I knew he had a chance, but his career was like a rocket. Mina had a connection who got him on Leno. After that, he signed to a two-single recording deal and a ten-day tour opening for Terrance Trent D’arby.

The day I received the ratified contract, I called Caroline and made a giant asshole of myself. My initial Valentine's Day answer to her proposal had been an uneasy yes. I'd sat by her side as she called her parents and squealed into the phone with each member of a bridal party she must have selected years before she met me. I declined to assemble my groomsmen, knowing they'd be limited to Oliver and Eliot, and hardly able to imagine that scenario.

We hadn’t bought invitations or set a date and she could immediately tell by my tone of voice that something had shifted.

"I'm sorry," was all I had the gall to say.

Caroline pieced together the rest. Rather than panic, she suggested we discuss it when the tour ended. It was a tempting offer to put off the decision, but I wasn’t ready for marriage. I wasn't built for marriage. I fundamentally mistrusted the institution. If Caroline wanted a husband and children, she deserved someone committed to the same.

I, on the other hand, was a committed manager for a spring-green shooting star. I liked to think my songs played some small part in his success, but Eliot and his voice were irresistible. Even I went a little madder for him every time he took the stage: eyes closed, fingers curled around the mic stand.

So far, he hadn’t done any interviews. After our first meeting with the execs, Mina pulled me aside. “I don’t know how else to ask this, but is he gay?”

I nodded, already sensing her point.

“Okay. Well, that’s fine," she said. "Half of them are. You just talk to him.”

Which meant I was to give Eliot an overview of the should and shouldn’t of being a gay performer.

“You don’t have to lie,” I explained. “Just deflect. Understand?”

He blinked.

“If it even comes up. It probably won’t.”

He took a deep breath and nodded.

The stylist prescribed crisp jeans, solid-color button-down shirts and a black Fedora. With his smooth, mature vocals, reviewers raved how Eliot Roberts was bringing decent back. After his hat fell off in Manchester and nearly gave the poor girls in the audience an aneurism, we decided to let his curls fly wild.

He smashed in Rekyvic. Crushed in Paris. Slaughtered in Berlin.

So, there we sat on a rumbling flight to Malaga: me, wishing I knew the patron saint of regional airliners, Eliot offering me a copy of the Parisienne article that compared his vocals to Andy Gibb and Freddie Mercury. No one could accurately describe his sound, but they all adored him.

“Will you read it again?”

He watched my mouth as I pronounced the French and then translated to English. “That’s so hot.”

I heard him and pretended not to. Eliot tugged my sleeve. “Will you teach me?”

I tucked in my arm like a wounded bird. “Teach you what?”

"French."

His breath on my face was a warm breeze of ginger ale. I’d done well keeping my distance, respecting his space. That was difficult in a plane. Even in first class, all he had to do was spread his long legs and they knocked against mine. I pressed my knees together and twisted toward the aisle.

“I always wanted to learn other languages," Eliot said. "But my father said I had to master English first.”

“If you want, I’ll teach you. Sure.”

“Okay. Go.”

I laughed.

“Not all of it. Just something.”

_“Espèce de sale gosse. Tu me veux du mal c'est ça?"_

His eyebrows touched his hairline. “Okay. How about hello?”

“Bonjour.”

“I knew that. How do you say goodbye?”

“Adieu.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then, you know everything.”

“Funny.” He bit his lip, rolling up his eyes to think. “How do you say—”

“Are you having a good time?”

He smiled and knocked my leg. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.”

“It's a little exhausting, but I love … all of it.”

At his stammer, I flushed, grateful that the proclamations remained impersonal. I could suffer a lot, but not Eliot’s declarations. Even if he’d said he loved being with me, it would have been too much.

He was right about the first part. We hadn’t gotten to bed (in separate rooms, courtesy of Columbia Records) before 3 AM a single night since we left home. Jetlag clung to my brain like plastic wrap.

Eliot walked two fingers across my thigh. I swatted his hand away and flipped through the in-flight magazine. Eventually, he turned to stare down at Mother Europe. I dozed off.

“Hey, Elio?”

I groaned my response, arms folded. Apparently, teenagers don't require sleep.

“You and my dad…” His voice choked off the question. “Did you—”

“Why are you asking me this now?”

“I was just wondering. Did you guys love each other?”

So much for a nap. I sat up, composed myself with a deep breath and a loud exhale. “I’m sure we did. Is that it?”

“I guess.”

“Good. Get some sleep.”

The moment I tried again to rest my eyes, a febrile and massive hand covered mine. Eliot’s skin was smooth as my own was furry. Adulthood had covered the marble-like surface of Oliver’s “antiquity” and made me something of an ape, especially in comparison with his son.

Eliot’s calloused fingertips slid back and forth in the grooves between my fingers, the roughness reminded of ten-year-old me falling asleep over his guitar. Back when neither this boy nor his father was a spark in my imagination. Back when my pre-adolescent passion was reserved for the fiery wizardry of Paco de Lucia’s flamenco.

I watched Eliot play with my hand and finally withdrew when the relentless agitation stirred unbearable heat. I returned his hand to his lap and gave a friendly pat. "Stop it, okay?"

“You never told me if she cried?”

“What is with you today?”

“Your girl," Eliot said. "Did she cry when you told her?”

She did not.

“I think I would’ve killed myself.”

"Don't say things like that."

Across the aisle, Terrance’s manager watched with unabashed interest as Eliot reclaimed  
my thigh, inches from my crotch, igniting wildfire in my veins. Again, I returned his hand to his own leg.

The boy had grown friskier with each flight. If I didn’t put my foot down, he’d have his hands down my pants in Prague.

I whispered from the side of my mouth, “Are you going to let up?”

“No.”

He was clearly tired and acting out. I quietly exiled myself to the faint stink of cigarette, urine and disinfectant in the tiny bathroom stall. I took a moment, gripping the sink for balance, considering the life-long attachment I’d forsaken in lieu of a ten-day tour.

When all was done, I’d go on guiding Eliot’s career, but from LA, while he earned an associate’s degree in Massachusetts. Perhaps, I could take a studio in New York, but for what? I could just as well manage him from California and there’d never be more between us than his infernal taunting.

I leaned close to the mirror, studying the first evidence of lines on my brow, scoffing that I ever thought it wise to touch that child.

His flirting was justice. It was the same torture I'd inflicted on Oliver. I'd cornered him, accosted him with my confession. Given him no choice but cruelty. I’d grabbed the man’s crotch, for Christ’s sake.

In comparison, Eliot was subtle. The only difference: it was a game to him. He wanted my attention, not my affection. I didn't want to think of him as a tease, but he’d wound me to my breaking point once. I refused to be riled up again.

He could touch and inquire and I wouldn’t play. If this tour brought an end to our friendship, so be it.

Once my head was clear, I returned to my seat. The next time his hand breached the invisible boundary, I caught him before it landed.

“Eliot, what are you trying to accomplish?”

“Whatever you’ll let me.”

“We agreed that it isn’t like that between us. You can't--”

“When did we ever—“

“On my balcony. Last year. You… I … You made it clear, and you were right. So, just… A little space, please.”

He retracted his hand and ran it through his hair, brushing his curls over his eyes.

“I was scared, Elio.”

“You had a boyfriend,” I said without moving. To face him would be destruction. “And I was out of line.”

The plane jolted again, creating a physical excuse for my vertigo.

“I did not have a boyfriend. I was a fucking coward.” Eliot stared at his empty hands. “I freaked out. We were going to… and you’d be across the country, and I wouldn’t know what you were thinking, or if you wanted me any more. And I didn’t want it to be this one-time thing with you.”

Ice rushed through me as the plane began to rattle. I was going to die in the air next to Eliot, Oliver’s son. It was either cosmic poetry or divine humor.

“At that point,” Eliot continued. “Every guy I’d come close to told my dad. Except for Mr. Orley, who fucked me, lost his job, and his family, and went to prison, and never talked to me again.”

I didn’t try to reply.

“I had the feeling I was poisonous, and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me.”

Nothing I could have said was adequate, so I nodded and didn’t inquire how old he’d been with Mr. Orley.

“More than anything, Elio, I didn’t want to lose you.”

Now, finally, I mustered the courage to look into his glassy eyes. “You’re never going to lose me, kid.”

Friends don’t break up. They don't abandon each other. If they board a train and ride away, it’s just another day, not some Greek tragedy.

“You were this cool guy who wanted me around.” Eliot gnawed his lip, long lashes batting away tears. “My dad still doesn’t look at me. It’s better now, but for a long time, he just avoided me. And I understand why, but… You were, like, the one guy who didn’t think I was trash. I didn’t want that to change. You ever have this thing where your brain won’t shut up? It just kept saying, ‘If you do this, it’s over. He’s never going to…’”

I waited for the rest of his statement, but he shook it away and ran a hand down his face.

“I wasn’t ready.”

I set my jaw, straightened in my seat and filled my lungs before I took Eliot’s hand.

***

My parents’ garden in spring was, as ever, a daydream of birds, butterflies and blossoms. We arrived too early for the fruit, but I hadn’t breathed such fragrant, fresh air since I’d left the place. Inside the house hadn’t changed an iota. With its ancient busts and paintings, the villa felt like a time capsule that hadn’t altered in centuries. Home was always a museum where I could touch everything except the modern world.

When my mother first inherited the place, I was the only child for miles. I’d while away summers watching tadpoles change (far too squeamish to investigate their slimy habitat). I basked in the sun, reading or practicing on a 3/4 sized violin that was still too big for my five-year-old hands. It was a good, sheltered childhood. Returning from the cold, hard world reminded me how successfully my parents had shielded me, for a time.

I darkened their door without fully preparing Eliot. I’d told my parents to prepare two rooms without stating why. Their assumptions were audible in the silence as they regarded us both.

Before I could speak a word, my mother fell on Eliot’s neck, kissing and fussing and worshipping him like the messiah had arrived. When she finally left him in peace, her handkerchief muffled the words she spoke to herself. I’d never met this sentimental old woman. Then again, I’d been away for nearly two decades. She was entitled her emotion, as uneasy as it made me.

Eliot peered over her head, but I lacked the heart to tell my mother that he wasn’t my son.

All I had was a Golden Globe to show for my profligate years. Siring a child wouldn’t have made me a good man, but it could have meant that someone had thought enough of me to create a new life together. My father dropped his bifocals around his neck. His head of thinning white curls barely reached Eliot’s chin. He tapped the young man on the shoulder and firmly shook his hand.

“Good to know you, Eliot.”

“You, too, sir.”

“Call me Zeyde.”

Again, Eliot sought a rescue I couldn’t mount.

I showed him to his room: the guest quarters where I’d slept each summer my parents took in a scholar. As I turned to let him acclimate, Eliot said, “It’s cool, you know. I hardly knew my dad’s dad. We only went to see him twice before he died.”

I nodded, waiting by the door in case he wanted to tell or ask anything else. He inspected the room, selecting a book from the shelf and sneezing out the dust.

“This place is amazing, Elio. How did you ever leave?”

“It was a lot easier than you’d think.”

***

Professor and Mrs. Perlman spared no expense. Dinner was catered and served alongside six cases of an exquisite local wine. They’d invited everyone I ever knew including the Venitian mohel who’d performed my bris. Thankfully, the old man felt no need to give a speech.

After dinner, they compelled me to the piano which I played while Eliot sang Moon River. I subdued my smile and let the room buzz in his praise. If I hadn’t put a stop to it, he’d still be singing.

The party moved outside into the fading sunlight where the crickets tuned up and fireflies kicked off their light show. Marzia’s half-wild twins shrieked and streaked across the lawn, naked as cherubs. Their mother, who’d lopped all her hair into an elven style, settled beside me on the grass. She plucked a hand-rolled spliff from my hand and took a long drag.

With a chuckle, she pointed to Chiarra’s fourteen-year-old daughter, an alluring girl with a Bedouin’s dark features. Carmella trailed Eliot like a shadow from the moment we left the dinner table. Now, she was merrily yapping up that fruitless tree, hanging from his arm. He graciously leaned to hear her cupped-handed whisper, frowned and shook his head. Pure adoration never left the girl’s coal-black eyes. If Eliot had been so inclined, he could have untangled those elbow-length braids and rolled in her hair like a pig in shit.

Carmella had my sympathy. That boy would drive us both mad.

Marzia’s balding husband chatted with my parents. No one batted an eye at her head resting on my shoulder, or when she hummed a tune that was popular the summer we claimed each other’s virginity.

Eliot disentangled from his young admirer and watched us.

“You know, she only speaks French and Italian,” Marzia said.

I laughed. “That’s got to be an interesting conversation.”

As if summoned, Eliot skulked over, took my left side and hooked his arm around mine. Chiarra’s daughter sat at his other side and mimicked the gesture, creating a chain of miserable, forlorn lovers.

“Can you make her leave me alone?” Eliot whined.

“Quit being a grouch and go play.”

“What are you smoking?” He clung tighter.

I eased away. “I mean it, kid. Scoot.”

He sneered through me at Marzia. His lip trembled as if preparing to spew some admission. To maintain his peace, I took the joint from her hand and presented it to Eliot.

“Happy?”

He took a drag.

“For God’s sakes, don’t tell your mother I gave you that.”

He coughed a laugh that made Marzia bray. I commandeered the spliff and Eliot plucked a sprig of my arm hair.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” I suggested quietly. “You deserve it.”

I expected an argument, but Eliot nodded and plodded off, stopping only to kiss each of my parents’ cheeks.

“‘e’s ‘andsome,” Marzia said, her ‘h’s silent as ever.

I nodded.

“Seems a good boy.”

“He is.”

“You two ‘ave a nice relationship, like you and your father.”

I didn’t argue.

“My father was such an ass’ole.”

That seems a common ailment. I’d never known to treasure my father’s kindness, his patience, his wisdom until I joined a world afflicted with daddy issues.

“Where’s the mother?” Marzia asked.

“In the states.”

“Are you together?”

I shook my head and kept my mouth shut. The fantasy was too sweet to relinquish. So far, I was even telling the truth.

“Well,” she said, and then nothing more.

Without her saying so, I knew Marzia would have snuck into the orchard with me and relived a slice of that summer. So odd how life unfolds. Before Oliver’s arrival, we'd all been sure Marzia would be my first great love. She’d been my best friend for years. That summer, my parents must have seen something shift in one or both of us because they began asking after her even though she came by daily to while away hours with me behind my closed bedroom door.

If Oliver had been any of the other thirty-two candidates, I might have tripped head-first in love with her and never left Italy. Eliot would still be Eliot. Oliver would still be Oliver. Only they would be strangers to me.

“This place was never the same without you.”

I realized then that Marzia probably thought it was her own failing that broke us up. She saw in me the same intrepid saint who fished her shoe out of Sig.ra Moretti’s pond when we were eight. Would her memory have been so generous if she'd known the whole truth?

Did the decades, or the dusk, make her forget how bitterly I scorned her that year? How I fucked my dearest friend to prove God knows what? It would have been better to admit I'd fallen for Oliver. I'm sure she loved me enough to get past the shock it would have been. Then, I'd have had her shoulder, and maybe a restorative romance, once he was gone. Instead, I lost her, Oliver, and my self-respect in the span of a few weeks. It was a momentous summer.

After a while, the others gravitated to my father’s firepit like a swarm of moths. A few broke off for a night walk. I performed a screen-worthy yawn, kissed Marzia's cheek, and retreated to the fantasies and nightmares awaiting in my old bedroom.

***

Was it possible I’d never left?

A few items had been rearranged. The sheets and curtains were new. But sitting at that desk felt the same as it had when I was six, nervously scribbling a letter to Topolino explaining that my missing incisor had been lost down the toilet.

The view and the aroma from the balcony were identical to the night I’d stood there with Oliver, imagining what he’d do to me. Our ghosts wafted into the room. Oliver asked if I was okay. Just as I'd asked Marzia.

I sat on the bed, stirring the scent of his sweat from the mattress. After all the time and guests, only his essence remained. I inhaled him, breathing the memory of nights on my belly, smothered beneath my lover. Oliver’s huge hand over my mouth, soaking my sighs and shouts into his skin. The nights when I rode him, or he took me. Every single moment that passed between us still lingered in that stifling air.

Oliver nuzzling my cheek while I licked his palm. Oliver on his knees. We were everywhere in that room. And in the cove where he’d kneaded and kissed my feet. In the garden, where he listened to me play. In my father’s study, where they debated etymology. In the hall, where he lifted me from my feet and stole too-brief kisses before breakfast.

He haunted the entire house. That is why I left B. - as much to follow Oliver as to escape his ghost.

Before that call, I’d been subsisting on the hope of reunion. I heard in his voice that my hope was wasted. I flew to America to make Oliver say it to my face. It took seventeen years, but he finally did.

***

I was stirred, but not surprised when Eliot slid into bed behind me.

“You asleep?”

“Yes.”

He curled an arm around my waist, crooked his knees behind mine. His firm belly contracted and expanded against my lower back. With his erection pressed to my rear, I lay still, careful not to rouse either of us further. I twined our fingers to keep his hand from wandering southward. “This is strange, with you in this bed.”

“I think it’s amazing.”

“That’s because you’re a kinky little freak.”

The bed shook with his laughter. I shushed him. The villa was spacious, but sounds traveled through the vents and stone on a silent night. At times as a boy, I could hear my father recounting a story to his guests almost as clearly as if he was in the room.

Unsettlingly strong, Eliot wrestled me to my back, leapt onto my chest, effortlessly pinned my shoulders and positioned himself over my crotch.

I turned aside. “Eliot, I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.” His hips rolled like the restless sea.

I closed my eyes and let him nip my mouth, his soft curls hanging on my forehead. Wide, warm hands enclosing my face.

“Yes, you can, Elio.”

“Please. Just… Be still, okay? Lay down. Please.”

It was a moment before he sighed and did as I asked. I lay stiff as a corpse.

“We need to tell them,” he said.

“You know, you’re as close as I’m ever going to come to having a son.”

“No. Don’t think that way about me. You’re not my father. Don’t you want me?”

“Yes.”

With my body’s reaction, I couldn’t plausibly deny the accusation. Eliot plastered open-mouthed kisses along my cheek, my jaw, my neck. My body shook as if with fever.

“Tell me about you and my dad.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Why?”

“I want you to tell me everything.”

Perhaps, anywhere else on earth, I could have denied him. But in that room where so many of the details had unfolded, I told of Oliver’s arrival in the taxi, his golden impression and my instant obsession. I ended my tale with the pitiful tears dripping into the fireplace.

Eliot sighed in my ear. “You should make a movie, or write a book.”

“No one would read that.” I smiled, warm and drunk on comfort I hadn’t hoped to know again.

“What happened next?”

Since he wouldn’t let up until I’d done so, I recounted everything from my flight across the Atlantic to the moment I lay in my old bed with Oliver’s beguiling siren of a son gently humping my thigh.

Eliot laughed into my cheek.

“What did your father tell you about me?”

He fell silent.

“Whatever it is, you can say it.”

“That you two fucked each others’ brains out.”

How could I reply?

“And that you love giving head.”

I coughed to keep my shock in check. “Is that all?”

“That you were good at it. Like, I think he used the word gifted. Sorry. It’s what I can remember right now.”

I couldn’t imagine the circumstances under which a father would give his son such intimate information, but it had happened and there was no use denying.

“It’s true,” I said. “I want my partner to enjoy himself. Did he mention any personal facts about me?”

“That you were born in Italy.”

“I was born in Stamford,” I said.

“Connecticut?”

I nodded.

“You were 17 when --”

“So, your dad pretty much just told you about our sex life?”

Why in God’s name would Oliver do that? My father had bored me with countless stories from his childhood, maybe one among them was about a crush. Never in detail.

“When I was 8, I told my dad I had a crush on a boy,” Eliot explained. “That I’d never liked a girl and I didn’t think I would. He was the strongest, best man in the world. And I thought he’d help me fix it.”

“He let you think you were broken?”

“No. I mean he suggested that I might start to like girls when I got older. He never made me feel bad, he just said not to tell anyone.”

For all I knew my father would have given me similar advice at eight.

“What I didn’t tell my dad was that Tommy Fitzpatrick had bronze hair and sea-blue eyes like he did.”

“Oliver told you that I enjoy sucking cocks when you were eight?”

“No. Of course not,” Eliot said. “At first, he just told me that he’d loved a boy once. That I’d be okay. Like him.

He never told anyone, and I never told anyone, and we never talked about it again until when I was twelve.

I came home crying about Sex Ed. You know, they taught us all about how guys and girls do it to make babies. And that was interesting, like reading about a foreign culture. But they never said anything about how boys have sex with boys, and I already knew I wanted that. And I thought maybe there wasn’t a way. And if boys couldn’t make babies it was wrong. And that I was just a freak and I’d either have to go for girls or… My dad… He completed the picture for me.

That’s when he told me about you. How I have your name, almost. And how you used to call him Elio. And he would call you Oliver.  
He said that I had your dark hair and your pale skin. And that someone would find me so beautiful one day.  
And my whole body just got all warm and weird, and I felt like I was floating and sinking. And I kissed him. I swear, Elio, I thought he wanted me to. He stood up so fast, he fell off my bed. I told him I could keep a secret, and he ran out of the room. He’s never really looked at me since.”

I’d never been more grateful for the dark. I wasn’t sure what expression was on my face. I wasn’t even sure what I felt other than paralyzing shock. If his attention had enlivened me before, now I was teetering between lightheaded and nauseous.

“I never even told the therapist that,” Eliot whispered. “I told her how I tried to kiss my cantor, and how I had sex with my history teacher. Not about that. ”

“Eliot.”

“I don’t know why I did those things,” he said. “I guess I was trying to get my dad’s attention.”

“Eliot.”

“I’m not proud of any of it. And I know I made you uncomfortable when I was younger. I was a weird kid. It's not like that anymore.”

My face was burning. Hands numb. Tongue thick and dry, like I was suffering an allergic reaction to Eliot's voice. I sat up in bed, considering the best escape route.

“Why’d you tell me all that?”

“I thought you … I wanted to be honest with you, too.”

His hand was on my arm, not clinging but stroking my hairs. Silently begging.

“You think I’m gross?”

“No.”

“Do you still want me?”

“Yes.”

I’d never wanted to want him in the first place. The things he’d said compounded the strangeness of the situation, but offered no relief.

Eliot knelt behind me, dropping his face on my shoulder. “You know I don’t want him. I haven’t in a long time. I only want you, Elio. Not the stories my dad told me, but the real you. You know that, right?”

“Eliot.”

“Don’t hate me, please.”

“I don’t.”

I sat at the edge of the bed, held his arms tight around me wondering how our lives could become any more bizarre.

***

We entered the kitchen together. I kissed each of my parents first and Eliot did the same. We sat across from them at the table and he loaded his plate with bread and fruit, already chewing when I spoke:

“Maman, Papa. There’s something I need to clarify. Or just do over.”

They both looked up, expectant. Eliot stared, as well. I searched the wall, already sinking in my parents’ disappointment.

“Richard, Anella Perlman, this is Eliot Heisenberg.”

They blinked at me and then at him.

“Oliver’s son,” I said.

My father smiled.

“Well, of course. Did you think we didn’t know?” He scraped butter onto his  
toast. “Oliver sends us pictures of his boys every year.”

Eliot popped a blueberry into his smiling mouth. I sank back in my chair.

“You knew?

“I had no idea.”

***

We rode bikes into town. I suggested the race. Eliot won handily. It didn’t even seem to occur to him to go easy on an old man.

Every place I took him had been preserved as if in formaldehyde. Many of the landmarks, Eliot recognized from his father’s or my story. He even pointed out statues and storefronts, as if he’d grown up and fallen in love in this idyllic world.

Out of some morbid fascination, I led him down the path through the woods, waded across the spring to the berm where Oliver first kissed me. Eliot hung an arm over my shoulder, nuzzled my hair and grinned.

I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t relive that scene, even for my oddly keen audience.

He muttered about the heat, peeled off his shirt and ran back down, dropping his shorts before wading in.

“Come on!”

The idea of revealing my furry frame and slight paunch to this godlike beauty was untenable.  
If I'd met Eliot ten years earlier, he’d have seen me in my finest hour. And he would have been nine years old.

I sat on a rock and dropped my head in my hands. He tried splashing me at first, then climbed up and sat beside me, hanging a cold, wet arm over my shoulder.

“You’re upset.”

It didn’t take an advanced psychology degree to know that. I covered my mouth, long-dormant tears welling behind my eyes. The last time I’d cried, I was because I couldn’t have Oliver. Now, I was on the verge because I needed only to claim his son.

“You have a problem with my age,” Eliot said.

“Yes.”

“And with who my father is?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened between us?”

I nodded.

“Okay. First of all…”

He knelt before me, displaying a broad chest as smooth and pale as ivory.

His cock was as impressive as Oliver’s but surrounded by thick, dark pubic hairs rather than his father’s strawberry blond thatch. Eliot caught the direction of my gaze and spread his knees wider. I rolled my eyes heavenward, too late, appalled by my sick comparisons.

“Jesus.”

“My father had his chance to be with you, Elio, and he gave it away. He’s the reason we found each other, but that story is over. From here on, what we are has nothing to do with him.”

“You must know that’s nonsense.”

“Everything is only what you think it is. My father is not here. I’m an adult. And I want to be with you.”

I covered my face and sighed between my fingers, shivering despite the warm sun on my skin.

“I love you, Elio. More than music.”

“Yeah, kid,” I said with a hand over my mouth. “Me, too.”

Eliot laughed and closed his arms around my neck. Without warning, he launched back into the frigid black water dragging me along with him.

***

Back at the house, Eliot laid down for a nap. I joined my father in his study.

“He’s quite taken with you.” The old man’s eyesight and hearing had faded, but he was ever sharp. "It's mutual. At least that's my sense of it. Correct if I’m out of turn.”

I nodded, waiting for his condemnation.

“Does Oliver know?”

"No.”

“Don’t you think you should tell him?”

I shook my head like a child being offered uncooked radish.

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know, Papa. Maybe he’ll kill me.”

“Is that what you deserve?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you believe that? If you believe that, you shouldn’t go near the boy. If, however, your feelings for Eliot are sincere, you have only to decide whether you are an honest or a craven man.”

My patted my shoulder. Once again, he’d whittled my turmoil into tranquil, undeniable wisdom.  
Like a soul to its maker, I made the solemn walk to the phone in the hall and slumped on the chair by the credenza. Everything was precisely where I’d left it nearly twenty years earlier.

From where I sat, there was a clear line of sight to the fireplace where I’d knelt and sobbed like a pilgrim whose voyage had ended at some ruin. In the summer, the hearth was cleaned and ignored and likely only signified warmth and comfort to the others in the house.

I dialed the memorized number with familiar anticipation. I’d suffered in similar silence before bungling my confession. Bracing myself as Oliver and I circling the Battle of the Piave River monument like sworn enemies in mutual pursuit. It was a fitting place to meet doom: a memorial to the death of 170,000 clueless, no doubt, impassioned young men. In the same way, I’d knowingly marched to face demise at Oliver’s hands, beneath his wide, hot chest, in his embrace.

In the same way heart, my heart hammered against my ribs, only at a slower pace. My tongue cleaved to the dry roof of my mouth as the phone rang once. Then, again.

What was it I’d said?  
“I know so little about the things that matter.”

Cryptic and dramatic as I was in those days, Oliver understood, although he tried to feign ignorance. “What things?”

“You know what things?”

My insides reeled even as my face remained calm. I sucked on that cigarette for stability and sanity, silently begging - Oliver. For God’s sake, spare me the humiliation and tell me you know.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I thought you should know.”

It was the stupidest thing I could have possibly said. Meaningless drivel. That’s what he reduced me to.

Indignation rose in Oliver’s voice and his bright red face. “Because you thought I should know?”

He was angry, and I was a broken record, “Because I wanted you to know.”

Amazingly, I never put that foolish refrain in a song.

And if Oliver asked me not to touch his son? If he outright forbade it? Could I defy him? Could I engage him in rational discourse and draw out some desirable response?

Another ring. My right hand tapped my thigh, limbs thrumming. It wasn’t too late to hang up and forfeit.

He might call me an animal. Cast dire threats across the ocean. Would I retreat?

Would I have backed down back then, if his commitment to being “good” had been more resolute? Could I have accepted his denial?

More likely I’d have driven us both insane with a torrent of tormented Post It notes:

Why not, Oliver?  
Please?  
Anything.  
Just once.

Hollow silence rang out between the tones. The voice of my younger self echoed forward as he and I prepared counter-arguments for the speculative past and future.

Eliot wanted me. I wanted him. Was there anything Oliver could say that would change my mind?

“Heisenbergs.”

“Hey, Gail.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. The tour was amazing. We’re just with my parents for a few days. I just... Was wondering if I could speak with Oliver.”

“He’s out back with the boys. Is it urgent?”

“Kind of.”

“Just a moment... Ollie…” Her voice trailed off as she left me waiting on the line.

It was less than a minute before a winded Oliver picked up the phone. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I’m… I, just... felt like I should call you.” I took a deep, steadying breath that didn’t work. “Felt like you should know.”

“You’re freaking me out, Elio. What is it?”

“I think …” I closed my eyes, inhaled and spat it out. “Eliot and I are ... I think … It’s pretty likely that we’re going to become intimate.”

The line fell silent. If it weren’t for the faint crackle of the poor connection, I’d have thought he’d hung up.

“Oliver?”

“Honestly, Elio. I thought you already were.”

I stopped breathing.

“Elio? You there?"

“And you don’t… You’re not—”

“I don’t love it, if that’s what you’re asking.” He sighed. “I wish that… I just want you to take care of him.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No.”

“All right, then.”

I gave Oliver the last word, expecting later. He didn’t speak again. The line went dead.

I sat back against the wall. The knots in my stomach twisted tighter before they began to unravel, and then coiled again. Now I'd faced my fear, there was the daunting matter of claiming my prize. I may have sat there for ten minutes.

Gradually, my nerves became firm enough to guide me through the corridors, up the stairs to the guest quarters - directly adjacent to my old room.

My initial plan was to wake Eliot with a kiss. But he slept so peacefully, pink mouth wide, hair disheveled in such a state of wanton beauty that it was a shame to disturb him. For a long time, I stood at his bedside, watching, my pulse flowing warm as a major seventh chord.

There was no rush. He was mine. His huge, eager heart waited to be earned or shattered.

A cisalpine sparrow lighted on the railing of the balcony, peeping in on my slumbering idol before it hopped twice and flew away again. I wiped the hair from Eliot’s clammy brow and breathed in his briny skin. He replied with a sleepy grin.

“Lunch?”

“No,” I laughed. “I won’t let you miss it.”

My mouth brushed his cheek, his soft lips. I breathed his breath for a moment before I whispered, “I love you.”

I’d never shared that hackneyed phrase with anyone other than my parents. I followed them with dumb speechlessness. Eliot’s eyes fluttered open. His smile grew so broad I thought his face would crack. He reached for my hand. I supplied and he pressed it to his face.

“I love you, too. Will you lay down with me?”

“No. You go back to sleep.” I laid another kiss on his nose.

Each one added another to the stockpile stored up for later.  
It would be too odd to have him in that place at midday with the household wide awake. Besides, I had every reason to expect my lover would be loud and that I wouldn't want it otherwise. I would have taken him, right then, to Anchise's shed, but it no doubt still reeked of fish. 

I considered telling Eliot I'd sought his father’s approval? Would that old fashioned gesture relieve or annoy him? I opted to save the confession for another time.

“Will you sleep here with me tonight?”

“Yes,” I swore to him, and to myself that I’d give my whole heart, such that it was.

One more kiss and I returned downstairs to let him rest.

I found my father in his office. I haunted the space like my younger self who longed only to be in his presence, to smell his cologne, to catch the drift of his musings. Among the framed pictures on the old man’s desk, there was an unfamiliar one of Oliver on the villa's roof with a hammer, young and smiling to outshine the sun. 

"Do you feel better?" he asked. 

"I do."

A great proverbial weight was off my shoulders, but now my eyes were fixed on the unfamiliar image. I finally presented the picture to my father.

“When was this taken?” I asked.

He gently took the frame from my hand, regarding the photograph before he frowned. “You don’t know, do you?”

There was no need to reply, only to wait.

My father dropped his glasses from his nose and let them dangle from the ends of his chain. “Oh, son.”

It was the sympathetic non-answer of a doctor with a terminal diagnosis. Still, I waited.

“Shortly after you left, Oliver came here, saying he needed a quiet place to write his book. The most he'd say about his new wife was that she understood.

Without him, it would have been a very frightening time for us. You left Carl’s without saying where you were going, or how you’d live. No one knew where you were.

For nearly eight months, Oliver lived, in a sense, like our son. We assumed that he knew something, that he was waiting for you, but you never came. You didn’t call for over a year. When you did, it was only to say you were still alive. Do you remember that?”

It wasn't a thing to forget. “I didn’t want you to try to make me come back.”

My father nodded. "Perhaps we smothered you. You know the difficulty your mother and I had in conceiving." He sighed. "A young man has to make his own way. I understood that." He placed the photo back in my hand and said, “I’m not sure Oliver did.”

***

  
We dined with my parents. Eliot answered their polite inquiries about his family. As they were retiring to bed he asked, "Will you take me into town?"

I borrowed my father’s Fiat and drove him to the movies. The only screen in B. featured Amélie in the original French with Italian subtitles, and for only us. Apparently, no one else was interested in Tuesday's last showing. Eliot quietly wrapped his arm around mine. I slid my hand between his thighs and received no complaint. He rested his head on my shoulder and nodded at my occasional translations, only trying once to bring my hand to his crotch.

"Watch the movie, Eliot."

After, we strolled the piazza in the dark, knuckles brushing, my siren humming.

At the pub, the barkeep asked after my mother, as casually as if I'd been in last week. Although my companion was old enough in Italy to order whatever he liked, he opted for a creme soda and sucked it down like he'd been born in the desert. He played that Linda Ronstadt song* on the jukebox and tried to make me dance when I was perfectly content to watch. 

A few of the patrons glanced his way. A couple even grinned. I paid the tab along with an exorbitant tip. I'd have given my entire modest fortune for that town never to change.

Eliot followed, without question, into the _pensione _and up to our humble, sweltering room. I waited by the door, in case my assumptions were mistaken. Eliot undressed in silence. Then he stepped against me, trembling, face damp with sweet summer sweat and tears.

“Hey,” I said. “We can sleep. Or go back to the villa.”

He shook his head, head bowed so he could hide behind his curls. I reached up to thumb his cheek dry.

“Why are you crying?" Giant baby. "Huh?”

“I wish this was my first time.”

“It is. It’s your first time with me.”

He smiled a little and nodded, gnawing a hole in his lip.

“What do you want?”

His face crumbled with some emotion akin to anguish. “Elio.”

I couldn’t help the smile as my hand curled around his neck to draw him near - brows meeting, breath mingled.

“We stop any time. You say the word.”

Eliot nodded and I took the lightest taste of creme soda and salt from his lips. Too savory to resist more. He unfastened my shirt and slid it from my shoulders. The bottom three buttons popped off and clinked into obscurity beneath the dresser.

He giggled an apology, reminding me that the only time I’d been with someone Eliot’s age was Marzia, and she was solemn as a nun. This boy was a mess of wandering hands, slack-jawed panting, and porn-inspired profanity. At his pace, we'd end before we began.

“Hey,” I coaxed him to sit on the bed, my head slightly above his. “Calm down.”

He nodded and drew a stuttering breath. I pinched his earlobe. Brushed my knuckles over his cheekbone and he leaned into the touch. I massaged his powerful, tree-climbing shoulders, ran a hand through satin-smooth hair, gripped the curls at his nape. His face turned up to meet mine, eyes wide with anticipation, tongue darting out to wet his mouth.

“You are...”

When words failed, I leaned to kiss him again. Eliot's arms closed around my waist and he dragged me on top of him, falling back onto the bed with all the strength and grace of a newborn colt. We wrestled for a moment until I rolled free of his arms and stood at the foot of the bed.

“Lay down, Eliot.”

He lay on his belly, then pushed back on hands and knees, offering his perfectly pert ass, stone-pale in the sliver of gibbous moonlight illuminating the room. My body burned to strike.

“Roll over.”

Again, he showed instant obedience and began to jerk himself with a fury.

“Slow down, kid.” I palmed my own impatience. “We have all night.”

“Just tonight?”

“Why don’t we start with now?”

This dance ached with strange, intoxicating familiarity. What would he think of me, and himself, in the morning? Would this be once, with a lifelong cost of regret? An end-of-tour fling that wrecked our special friendship? Were my proclamations to Oliver premature?

Eliot's fingers curled into fists as I surveyed the miles of shivering, cream-soft skin, garnished with moles like drops of toffee, and my pulsing need to savor every inch.

_* When Will I Be Loved?_

_~ fine ~_


	17. EPILOGUE

_ **2016** _

Everything is according to his design: the moonlight-dim ballroom, the ceiling atwinkle with a hundred thousand holiday lights, candles flickering on each round, silk-covered table. There's just enough glow to watch my husband launch like a rocket. He howls as they lift his chair and begin to dance the hora.

“You next?”

Oliver has snuck to my side. He nudges me with his elbow and offers one of his tumblers. Likely scotch. That's all he drinks anymore.

I shake my head. “No way.”

No way I'm going to allow a bunch of half-drunk thirty-somethings lift me in a chair. Nice guys, most of whom are constantly at our house: Eliot’s fellow teachers at the high school, and his bandmates. They adore and would never let him fall. As for me, my feet will remain firmly on the floor.

Again, Oliver offers me a drink although he knows I don’t partake anymore. I show him a palm to decline.

“Not even tonight?”

I point up at Eliot. “Got to keep the boss happy.”

I’ve been dry for over a decade, with Eliot’s support, never under any pressure. It’s made me a better partner, a better father. But there’s nothing more effective than blaming the old ball and chain.

Besides, Oliver does just fine emptying the first glass himself.

“Hey,” he says as if struck by a memory. “You had your prostate exam yet?”

“Seriously, Ol? Tonight?”

"The day you hit fifty--"

"Yeah, I know."

“I’m only standing here today because they caught it—”

“I know, Oliver. I will. Geez.”

He downs his second drink. If only he'd worry as much for his own liver as for my prostate. He nests the tumblers and waits like a predator until Gavin chases little CJ past him. Oliver strikes and snags my son by the back of his jacket so he can task the boy with returning the glasses to the bar.

Before Gav can scurry off and do his Zayde’s bidding, I fix the little guy's hair and point up at Eliot.

“What do you think of that?”

“He doesn’t even look scared.”

“Is your dad ever scared?”

Gavin shakes his head, smiles and waves. Eliot blows us both kisses, laughing as his friends fling him higher. At seven, my son still believes his dad strolls on water. His papa, on the other hand, is a meanie. Somebody has to make rules. He’ll appreciate me one day. Or he'll hate me. Those are pretty much the options. 

Oliver’s next offer is a cigar. He pulls two from his breast pocket. I accept to be polite.

“You know, it was Gail who turned me on to these.” He sighs and bites off the tip.

Somehow, the revelation doesn’t surprise me.

"Gail was a very unique woman,” I say.

Oliver nods wistfully. "That she was."

It’s been five years. She was already starting to fade when we started fostering Gavin. She was around for Carlos and Obie’s weddings. She died two months after CJ’s birth, and therefore missed Obie’s divorce.

I assume Oliver is still thinking about her. He’s certainly brewing a story. Over the years, I’ve come to know that distantly pleased expression, along with an assortment of his other tells.

"She was fine with it long before I was," he says. “Back when you two were making that first demo, she asked me whether you were a good man. I had no idea what sort of man you were."

"Did you think I'd--"

"I don’t know what I thought."

I can’t quite read the way Oliver chuckles and then sighs.

“You know when I knew?” He asks.

The low light brings out the streaks of silver in his golden hair. The creases around his eyes look like an artist's heavy outlines, carved in deeper during those years of caring for a diminishing wife.

“What did you know?” I asked, smiling at up Eliot to keep from staring at my father-in-law, and de facto best friend.

Surreal that Oliver will be 60 in a few years. And that I'm not far behind him. Where does time go?

“I knew that you two would make it when he went on Regis and Kathy Lee,” Oliver says. “You remember that?”

“I remember.” You don't really forget the day your protégé sings his heart out on national TV.

Eliot made it even more memorable and sealed the fate of his career.

“And he finished singing and sat down and Kathy Lee asked whether he’s got a girlfriend. And Eliot says, ‘No, ma’am.' And all the little girls started screaming. Then, he says, ‘But I’ve got an amazing boyfriend.’ Then, he looks right at the camera and whispers, ‘I love you, Elio.’" Oliver draws a long breath. "I knew it right then. I guess the whole damn country knew it.”

He speaks like a man displaying his son's war medals.

Incidentally, I knew the first time we made love that I'd never leave Eliot. But I’m not going to say that to Oliver. What I’m thinking of saying instead isn’t much better.

“You know, there’s something I never asked you.”

I've never raised the topic, with good reason. It’s one of those proverbial sleeping dogs I’ve always left alone. Oliver might not be aware that I know.

My parents have been dead for years. No one ever mentioned it in all our Perlman-Heisenberg family summers at the villa. Tonight, I ask as casually as if we’re discussing Gavin’s soccer team: “Why didn’t you ever tell me you’d gone back to Italy after your wedding?”

Oliver always reminds me of Eliot when he shrugs. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“No, I guess not," I say, far from satisfied. "What would you have done, if I--"

"Who knows, Elio?" He shrugs again. "That was a long time ago."

His austere expression is as plain as punctuation. Hard stop. End of discussion: random questions disregarded. Almost certainly for the best.

The photographer chooses now to snap a shot of two aging men holding unlit cigars, watching the younger men dance. It’s instinctive, I assume, when Oliver slings an arm around my waist. We always hug when entering or leaving one another’s presence: a brief, good-natured affair. At Gail’s memorial, he’d clutched me like the ground was sinking beneath us - for no more than ten seconds. Then, he’d pulled away, apologizing.

The hora ends and Eliot returns to earth. 

“You’ll excuse me.” I pat Oliver’s still-firm shoulder. “You know he’s going to make me dance.”

When I join his side, Eliot turns up his nose at his father's cigar and drops it into his breast pocket.

“Were you going to smoke that?”

“I was saving it for you.”

He snorts when he laughs. The parquet clears and we float across the floor to Schubert’s Waltz in B minor.

Ever concerned for his father since his mother's passing, Eliot interrogates me while we dance, "Is he having a nice time?”

"I believe so.”

“Is he drinking too much?”

“Probably.”

“Should we—“

“No, Eliot. He’s a big boy.”

On the final chord, he dips me nearly to the floor. The crowd goes crazy, unaware that a muscle in my lower back doesn't think it's very hot at all. The spasm strike so hard I can barely walk the rest of the night.

***

I spend the rest of the reception and the first two days of our honeymoon in a lounge chair, complaining about the shortcomings of Extra Strength Tylenol and the sluggish tempo with which Eliot delivers my meals.

On the third day, he stands between me and the television, hands on his hips. Handsome as ever in a black t-shirt and jeans. He watched up the workout regimen before the wedding. The way his biceps and pecs overwork the fabric is far more engaging than reruns of Plus belle la vie.

“I think you’re faking,” Eliot says.

“I am not faking.” I slowly roll my neck, wincing for effect. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you’re faking,” he repeats.

The truth is, we’ve been to Paris ten times in the last fifteen years. There is nothing new happening in this city, and I was frankly annoyed when he requested it to be our honeymoon spot.

“Get up, right now.” Eliot kicks my foot. “I want to go out.”

“Fine. But come here first. I need motivation.”

He sucks his teeth and straddles my lap. Huge boy with black curls dangling between our eyes as he presses his infernal smirk to my smile. The antique recliner creaks. It won’t be the first chair we’ve broken.

The tip of my right thumb leaps along the constellation on his left cheek. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

“I’m not going to change my mind, Elio.”

“You know how much I love you?”

“Yes, because you say it every day. Now get up. _Je _veux voir_ le Louvre_.”

His American accent is thick, but his grammar is good. And he speaks Italian even better than French. An apt pupil.

I finally nod, earning a kiss on my forehead and another peck to my lips. Eliot tries to dismount, but I hold him still for a moment longer. Just to admire my husband of one day.  
My partner of 15 years. "So much life and love ahead of us" as we unabashedly wrote into our vows. If there's ever a time to bring out the clichés.

This beautiful, unpredictable man who adores me with more courage and tenderness than I deserve. Whose fierce dedication brought us our son. Who draws the curtains in our bedroom each morning and lets in the sunshine. Eliot is the reason I wake up. Without him, I’d still be waiting for Oliver to call me back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and for your comments.  
If you're satisfied with this ending, you may choose to stop here. The coda contains contentious content.  
  

> 
> PS: If anyone’s curious, here’s my model for young Eliot  



	18. CODA - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In music, a coda ([ˈkoːda]) (Italian for "tail") is a passage that brings a piece (or a movement) to an end. Technically, it is an expanded cadence. It may be as simple as a few measures, or as complex as an entire section.  
In this case, it will be three chapters.
> 
> WARNING: May contain contentious topics.

There’s no dignity in standing at the top of the steps, holding my breath so I can catch the words between Eliot and Mark’s bursts of laughter. Yet, here I am: superglued to this spot on the marble tile, berating myself, but physically unable to move - even when their footsteps thud up the stairs. Louder and closer. Mumbles. Laughter. I’m still standing here, like a creep, when the door swings open.

This suspicion always returns, insidious as cancer. I can be fine for years at a time, but it lies dormant under my skin, swelling up to destroy everything in its path. Either jealousy is cancer, or Eliot is.

He gasps at the sight of me, eyes widening as he bursts into even louder cackles. Mark knows better. His hilarity dries up. He nods and says my name by way of Hello and Goodbye. If I open my mouth, the steam in my chest will burn the skin off them both.

They’ve been practicing in the studio. I haven’t called that space “mine” in ages. What’s mine is Eliot’s. Like our house, that I bought while he was still in pre-school. And our son, who I, alone, reprimand.

In fact, my spouse brought no material wealth to our union, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t mind giving him anything. I put the man through college. He’d be busking on a street corner right now if it weren’t for me. But I don’t lord that over him. It’s just fact.

He strolls down the hall in his faded black skinny jeans with a hand on his drummer’s shoulder, as if the guy needs help locating the door. Mark is here every other damn day. Once, I walked in on him using my espresso machine. I think he can find the fucking door.

I don’t follow them. My remaining modicum of self-respect sends me into the kitchen to make a sandwich, and to watch through the window over the sink. From here, I’ve got an unobstructed view of my horseshoe driveway.

Eliot and Mark stand in plain sight hugging out their goodbye. Why is that necessary? They play together three-four times a week. Eliot watches until Mark’s van is no longer visible. What the actual fuck?

By the time he returns, all my attention is devoted to roast beef and mayo on seedless pumpernickel.

“God, he’s so good,” Eliot says.

I’ve heard Mark play. He’s an adequate musician, at best. I’ve played with far better drummers and I don’t mind saying so.

Rather than argue, Eliot smirks. I don’t even have to look to know. He’s on my right side, leaned back against my Formica calacatta countertop, making some annoyingly cute face I refuse to look at. He’s not a child and he’s not a puppy. He presses his mouth against the side of my neck and I shrug him off.

“Come on.” Eliot slides, slick as hot oil, behind me, bending his knees to knock his crotch against my ass. He breathes cold comfort into my ear: “You know if I was fucking him, I’d tell you.”

I slap my butter knife around in mayonnaise, slam the bread together and viciously saw the sandwich in half. I do know that. Eliot’s excessive honesty, coupled with his overactive libido, nearly put an end to us. His early twenties were one constant strand of confessions.

Today, he stands behind me today, gripping my hips, gently humping like I’m somebody’s leg. He whispers, “I don’t want anyone else, Elio.”

I never shamed him. Never tried to stop him scattering his wild oats. I was in my 40s and practically out of grain. I found myself with a prescription (small, diamond-shaped, blue), frequent headaches and blurred vision before regular weight-training fixed the trouble on my end.

We could have fucked multiple times every day. It wasn’t frequency Eliot craved. The boy wanted variety. If I’d tried to cage nature, I could have lost him. It wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.

He never snuck around or lied. At first, he wanted me to share him with other guys. I always wound up leaving the room. Maybe in my twenties, I’d have been into it.

Eliot swears it was only a few months of experimentation. To me, it felt like years of skin-tight leather pants and sheer shirts over oiled pecs. Don’t wait up.

Telling someone not to wait up is giving Sleep the night off. At 40, I gave my live-in boyfriend the safety talk and a pack of condoms, I knew he’d never gotten from his father.

His response was a condescending smile to my forehead. “You don’t have to worry about me, Elio. I’ll probably be home tomorrow.”

Usually, he was. Once or twice he vanished for days leaving me with the debate whether to call his parents.

“It’s not about you,” he’d say and ask if I was okay with it, whether I understood, if I wanted to talk.

I answered yes, yes, no. Two out of three replies were true.

For a while, Eliot would talk about his escapades. Eventually, I put a stop to that so I wouldn’t choke him out in the night.

One day, it stopped. He didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. I sensed that something bad had happened and he’d crawled home like a whipped mutt from an alley fight. Suddenly content to curl up on the sofa and be handfed milk bones. Shaking and barking in his dreams, but too cowed to fight anymore.

But Eliot is 34 years old now. He’s not a horny kid, who never got his yayas out, trapped in a mansion with some old guy. His yayas have been spurted, sprayed and splattered all over West Hollywood.

Even with that history, I don’t usually complain about his friends. I just privately hate them. I attend but retire early from his weekly soirees. I go to his concerts and Gavin’s games where I sit quietly at my husband’s side while he handles the obligatory parent conversations.

We are similar in some ways, but Eliot requires constant social stimulation. I’m content, every few months, with a ten-minute catch-up chat. Otherwise, I don’t bother people. When my husband suggests I go out, I go downstairs.

Eliot effortlessly spins me to face him. He takes the sandwich from my hand and puts it on the plate.

“Are you here now?”

The mind, once scourged with dark thoughts, can be difficult to purge.

“How many times do I have to say it? You're being paranoid, Elio.”

He’s been saying that for years. Sometimes, I believe it. Maybe it's even true now.

I stare past his face at the archway that leads into the dining room. I’ve been thinking of having painters come in to lighten the walls. I turn aside when Eliot tries to kiss me. He gets a mouthful of cheek. I get petty vindication.

I know it’s stupid. That changes nothing.

“Do you want me to fire Mark, and get a new drummer?”

“I want you to fire Mark, and get a big, fat, ugly drummer,” I say. “Some gnarly Samoan guy.”

Even that’s no guarantee that my slutty little bumblebee wouldn’t be interested. I don’t believe there is any type of man he wouldn’t do. He likes men. Men like him.

Eliot smiles, kisses my cheek, my neck and paws my fly. I allow it.

“You know, you need to relax, Babe. You’re so tense all the time,” he says. “You’ll get more work.”

I’ve let him learn me too well. My mind, my body, loosen to him like putty. I liquify, even as I harden in his hand. I don’t stop him because Eliot should prove his devotion to me. It’s only right that he kneels to swallow what I give him, glassy eyes gazing up like I’m the only star in his sky.  
I slap his cheek the way he likes. And again, the way I like.

“Say it.”

He knows what I want to hear and he doesn't hesitate to humor me. “I only want you.”

Now, if only it were true.

My hand is on Eliot's chin and the appropriate worship is in his lazy upward gaze. My cock barely breeches his lips when our son wanders into the kitchen and asks, “Hey, you seen Dad?”

I freeze. Eliot does the same but doesn’t spit me out.

“Uh, no,” I say

Three feet of kitchen island separate our kid from lifelong mental scars.

“Go upstairs, Gavin.”

He glares at me, because that’s his new MO: glaring at me, because I’m ”The Man.”  
Not in a cool way.  
Eliot is “the man” in the cool way. I’m the asshole who set up his trust fund and tells him what to do. The Man.

“Now, Gavin!”

He takes two steps toward the fridge. Three more and he’ll have a full view of Dad making it up to Papa.

“What did I fucking say?”

That’s not what I meant to say, but it works. He halts and stares as if I just yelled profanity at him for the first time. Terrific. 

“You need to do what I say, son.”

“I just want a soda.” Another step.

“And I said, no!”

“You’re an asshole, Elio.”

Well, now, we’re even. And I’m shaking with anger as Gavin tromps back in the direction he came. I back away from Eliot. He stands and wipes his mouth. “I thought he was outside.”

“He was outside because I sent him outside.” I zip my pants. “Now he’s upstairs, plotting my death.”

“You were kind of harsh, Elio.”

“He called me an asshole. Or did you miss that part?”

“You both were out of line.”

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” Eliot says. “Not yell at him. You’re always yelling at him.”

Sometimes, I wish they’d both leave, for just one week. Eliot has been promising to take Gavin, charter a boat off Kauai and catch some triggerfish this summer. Then, instead of buying tickets, he books another show with his band.

“So, I guess you’d be okay with it if—”

“Verletta called.”

My argument is sound and ready, but this revelation blasts off its sails.

“You were in the studio. Then, I had practice,” Eliot says. “I didn’t get to tell you. She talked to him for about an hour.”

“Jesus.” I sigh and sit at the island. “Why did you let it go on for so long?”

“Was I supposed to tell him to hang up?”

“Shit.”

Every time Gavin has contact with his mother, it’s like pushing restart on our relationship. Our adoption arrangement includes a court-ordered schedule for calls and visits, which she sometimes respects and often doesn’t. Sometimes she’s clearheaded when she calls. Often not. Thankfully, she doesn’t know where we live. Regardless, it’s no wonder he’s acting like a gremlin.

“You know what this means,” Eliot says.

I shake my head. “I’m not agreeing to that.”

“You said you’d think about it.”

“I have thought about it. How is he going to get work—”

“He’s nine, Elio.”

“He’s nine now. When he’s nineteen, or twenty-nine, how is he going to —”

“Everyone has them.”

“Everyone does not have them.”

“A lot of young, black boys wear dreadlocks.”

“So, that’s the test? Our son should do whatever other young, black boys are doing? So, he should join a gang, Eliot? Do you think, maybe, Gavin ought to join a gang?”’

“You’re being ridiculous right now.” He picks up my sandwich. “You need to go apologize.”

“I’m not going to apologize,” I say. “You know what message that sends? Make excuses for bad behavior.”

“And what about you and your bad behavior?” He has the nerve to bite my sandwich and nod in the direction of the steps. “Apologize. The lesson is humility. Show him how it’s done.”

I show him both middle fingers. It would be infinitely easier to descend into my lair and be done with them both for today.

Four knocks, no answer. So, I enter before I get pissed off again. It’s better to approach this in contrition. If I even suggest he was wrong, we’re going to fight.

Gavin is lounging on his beanbag, shooting the people on his TV screen. He never even looks up to acknowledge that I’m here.

“Is that age-appropriate?”

“Dad’s fine with it.”

Of course. Eliot is fine with everything. That’s why I have to be the law. Eliot probably plays this game with him.

“What’s the point of knocking on the door if you’re just going to barge in?” Gavin says, mowing down a pair of staggering attackers.

Zombies, I suppose. Does that make it okay? And why do I get the feeling, he's imagining them all with my face?

“May I come in?” I ask. And it’s sarcasm, but at least I’m not yelling.

“You’re already in.”

My son is sporting brand new Balenciagas, an Addidas jumpsuit and a $200 haircut with a strike of lightening down the side. Would I have a problem with him growing his hair if it was blond or carrot-orange?  
But it isn’t. We adopted a mahogany-skinned boy with the full awareness that we’d have to help him navigate a society that doesn’t automatically expect him to succeed. Now, he wants to wear his hair like some guy who’s only not in jail because he knows how to tackle.

“Gavin, I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” he says.

“I shouldn’t have yelled. I was… I had something else on my mind and —”

“Okay. Can you go now?”

I nod a few hundred times, swallowing the shouts and the justified accusations of ingratitude. I’ve read all the books. Gavin is in the twelfth percentile size-wise. People often assume he's six, or sickly. His attitude, however, is typical fare for a young teen, adopted or not. I have the unique experience of parenting a 118 IQ, former crackbaby. Maybe I’ll write the first book on that topic.

Without other guidance, my gut tells me to rip the toy gun from his hand and tear the TV cord from the wall. Gavin’s gut apparently tells him to kick his beanbag. It flops over unimpressively. I take that as a win.

“You suck, Elio.”

“Practice your violin.”

All the experts agree it’s a parent’s job to deescalate. If I stay in this room another minute, there will be blood.

“Why the hell did you buy him this game? I told you —”

Eliot takes the gun from my hand, replacing it with a heavy-laden plate: sandwich, apple, a half pickle and chips. “Relax, Papa.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

“You will, tonight.” He grins. “In the meantime, I’m going to take the boy out for hot dogs.”

“Fine,” I accept my bribe and steal away to my den, locking the door behind me.

***

My irksom beloveds are still out when my phone rings. I’m only listening to music, but I don’t recognize the out of town number. I nearly let it go to voicemail but (617) is a Massachusets area code.

I sigh, pause the track and answer.

***

I’d never say it out loud but I can’t stand the sight of him. When I was forced to be in the hospital room with the rest of the family, my gaze wandered the walls, the curtains, the ceiling, the floor. Anything but him.  
The entire right side of Oliver’s face looks like Plastic vs. Microwave. The right steel-blue eyeball rolls like a loose marble in its socket while the other levels a sad, penetrating stare.

I can sense that he doesn’t want me there room either. It’s the same downstairs guest room where he tended to Gail the last few years. The same room where she died. There’s a yacht theme: nautical paintings, a boat’s wheel on the wall and a horseshoe crab shell on the dresser. The Heisenberg’s dying room stinks of stale memories and decaying brain matter. I’m not going back in. No one can make me.

Our tiny nieces, Ruby and Lucy, splash each other in a turtle-shaped pool. I join their mother on the patio. Sharon, Carlos’ wife is pregnant again and complaining that the lemonade has no sweetener.

“No Splenda or anything.”

Their oldest, Jack is a six-year-old, a platinum-haired cherub chases Gavin across the backyard. The boys duck behind the shrubbery, laughing like pirates. I always feel the same awe of Eliot’s Classic American upbringing as he does for the villa. Belonging here feels like inhabiting a 50s TV show.

Eliot and Carlos are in the living room negotiating our future.

“So,” I say to Sharon, so that I won’t combust from the stress. “Any day now.”

“Any minute,” she smiles, rubbing her belly. There’s a whole person in there. “Do you want to feel?”

“Oh, no. Thanks.”

“I swear, he won’t stay still.”

My unborn nephew sounds like his uncle Obie. Oliver and Gail’s youngest boy hasn’t set foot on this continent since his divorce, five years ago. Carlos made a joke once that Obie’s ex cursed him to roam the world seeking a shaman to retrieve his soul. Folklorist humor. Sharon laughed. Eliot wrote a song about it.

Heisenbergs.

The bottom line is that no one has seen Obie in years. I know all about a young man’s need to leave home, but his absence means post-stroke Oliver’s care is a toin coss. He’ll either become the responsibility of Carlos - who lives two miles away with his pregnant wife and 3 children under the age of 7. Or else he’s on us.

The jury doesn’t deliberate long. When Eliot and Carlos join us, their matching sober expressions make them look more like brothers - and Gail’s sons - than I usually see.

Rather than ask for the verdict, I watch Gavin dash across the yard like a comet. A second later, Little Jack emerges from behind a bush with a long stick pointed at his cousin’s spine.

“Boom Boom Boom,” he shouts.

Gavin's performance is Oscar-worthy: arms sprawled, back arched, he lands, face-first, in the dry grass.  
I stand. He lays there. Sharon’s jaw drops. Gavin doesn’t budge. My heart pounds against my ribs.

“Hey!”

Self-respecting coastal liberals don’t buy our children fake weapons. Instead, those children pantomime murder using elements of nature.

Mine was an isolated European childhood. This is distinctly American barbarism. Do I need to lecture my brother and sister-in-law on the myriad reasons it’s unacceptable to let their son pretend to shoot my son in the back?

“Hey!”

Before I can step toward the boys, Eliot’s hand is on my bicep squeezing, urging me to calm. But there’s no calm. My blood is rushing hot in my ears. What I’d like to do is turn Little Jack over my knee.

“Relax, Papa,” Eliot whispers. “Everything’s okay.”

“They need to play something else.” I force the words between my gritted teeth.

“Jack wanted to play Star Wars, and your son wanted to show you something.”

“What?”

Eliot flashes the know-everything smirk that I always want to kiss/slap off his face. He escorts me to the side of the patio and explains that Jack came in looking for his light sabers and Gavin insisted on cops and robbers.

“He did it to annoy you, Elio.”

“That little shit.”

Eliot laughs. “Look at it this way: if he’s under your skin, you’re paying attention.”

That sounds like Eliot as a boy.

“Wait. What does that… I’m paying attention.”

“Well…” My husband shrugs. “Sometimes you’re reading. Sometimes, you’re on your computer. Sometimes you’re in the studio for days at a time, working on —”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Let’s not argue here, Babe.”

He’s right. I’m on the cusp of becoming a family legend: the Great Gay Blowup of 2018. Of course, this argument has no more to do with us both being men than the Great Walkout of 2012 happened because Obie and his ex were poorly matched, or the Fork Threat of Passover 2015 occurred because Carlos and Sharon have too damn many small children. But if we fight in public, that’s what they’ll see.

Besides, we don’t fight. We disagree. He pisses me off, but we don’t fight. He could diffuse half my tension by telling me what to expect.

Will we have to live with undead Oliver?  
It’s awful. I’m awful for thinking it, but that’s how he looks. Worse than my mother ever did.

I did not rise to the occasion of her illness. I shrank away from it. I broke down in the store because I didn’t know what size adult diapers to buy for her. How am I supposed to do better when Oliver has shed fifty pounds and the skin is hanging from his bones. He was once the definition of strength and masculine beauty. I can’t watch that waste away under my roof?

Then again, how can I say no?  
It's not like he has nowhere else to go.

“Listen,” Eliot says.

Gavin and Jack are harassing the babies in the pool, splashing them, pouring water over their heads. Bother the girls is a much better game.

I’m worrying about nothing. Carlos and Sharon live right here. Surely, they’re the better option to peek in on Oliver from time to time.

“I told Carlos that we’d pay for a nurse,” Eliot says.

Perfect.  
Only, not perfect because these words are from the man who fed my mother when I couldn’t stomach it. My father had the dignity to go quick and quiet, unlike his Annella. We spent half a year in Italy supervising her care.

Gavin was his Nonna’s tesoro. She came to stay with us when in the beginning, as if a five-year-old is a newborn. My mother insisted a child needed a woman’s presence. I decided not to tell her how condescending that was. She turned out to be a godsend. As much as Gavin loved his grandmother, even he complained about missing his friends. I spent every day silently wishing she would let go and end all of our suffering.

Eliot never balked. He visited her in the night, crushed her pills and stirred them into juice, picked up the slack between the nurse’s shifts.

“The problem is,” he continues. “Carlos doesn’t think Oliver should be alone in the house until he’s fully mobile again.”

What about elder facilities? We can afford. the best in the area. I’d even pay the fee for some stranger to care for Oliver 24 hours a day. Or I can say the words Eliot is waiting to hear. If I do, I’ll be lying to my husband, but that’s what he wants. All I have to do is open my mouth.  
Bile bubbles hot in my throat like I’ve been guzzling lava.

“Of course,” I say. “He should come stay with us.”


	19. Chapter 19

There are eight available bedrooms in the house, but all on the second and third floors. So, the first order of business is turning the parlor into a guest room so Oliver has access to the first-floor bathroom. It only takes a couple of days for the workers to put up two additional walls. The alternative was installing a chair lift which I refused, on principle.

Eliot and I pass like ships in the master bathroom: his shower, my shave. By way of friendly conversation, I ask, “How’s he doing?”

“You could go see him, you know?” He stands behind me, peering over my head in the mirror. “It’s not difficult to find the bottom of the steps, Elio.”

I peel his arm from around me. He knows I can’t do that.

On the third day after Oliver’s arrival, Eliot announces his intention to quit work. School starts in two weeks and he fires this torpedo now.

“Not so much quit,” he says. “Srikanth says to take all the time I need. Mark can fill in, teach the kids some rhythms. That’s the beauty of working at a private school.”

I don’t know why it knots my stomach. Nothing will change for me. During the day, he’s at work. I’m in the studio. His income doesn’t impact our livelihood. Still, he made the choice without consulting me first. Just like this whole decision to bring Oliver here was reached without my approval. He humored me by pretending I had a say.

Oliver came with a wheelchair and some clothes. (Custom-sized hospital bed sold separately). Eliot hires a PT, learns the restorative exercises and takes to the work with his usual vigor. Some mornings, I stumble across him folding his withered, old man into modified yoga poses. Once I learn their feeding and exercise schedule, I avoid them like cholera. But there are unfortunate miscalculations. Then, I’m the vision of cordiality:

“Good morning, Oliver.”

He nods. It’s more than enough contact for me.

Gavin used to do his homework in the parlor after school. Now, he slips into Oliver’s room and I might see him for a few minutes each day. If Eliot needs something, he texts.

After a few weeks, I don’t ask about Oliver’s progress anymore. Eliot doesn’t volunteer the information. I take my meals in the studio, even though I haven’t gotten a scoring or arranging job in months. Down here, it’s easy to pretend I’m alone in the house. Until tonight when Eliot’s footsteps thud down the steps.

I mute the music with the remote. I do not, however, uncross my feet or take them off the table.

“Did I not lock the door?” I ask.

“You know I have a key.”

“For emergencies. Is this an emergency?”

“They had a cancellation at The Sassafras tonight.” He subdues a grin.

“That doesn’t sound urgent.”

“We’re going to take the gig. Gavin’s going to sleep at Nawin’s. I just need you to peek in on Oliver while I’m out. Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”

“The sound is atrocious at The Sassafras.”

“But they have a good crowd,” Eliot says.

“Mostly tourists.”

“I haven’t been out of the house since Oliver arrived.”

“Are you blaming me for that?”

We used to watch this movie with Gavin: Emporer’s New Groove. Back before he was so entertained by on-screen murder and death. I’m still laying on my back, hands folded over my stomach channeling Cuzco, a lovable despot, humoring a troublesome peasant.

“You wanted to play Florence Nightingale,” I say.

Eliot flinches as if I’ve threatened him. “Your parents were such good people. How are you like this? Have you even been in to see Oliver?”

He’s goading me. Fine. I’ve been spoiling for this fight. I climb to my feet and look up into his face. David to his Philistine. Eliot steps back and I poke the center of his solid chest.

“How do I know you’re not going out to screw the entire band?”

“Seriously? Again, Elio?” He sighs. “Because I have never lied to you and I’m not going to start now. If you can’t believe that, it’s not my problem.”

Eliot is halfway up the steps before he shouts back: “You know what? Sometimes, you are an asshole.”

I turn back on my music. John Zorn. Naked City.

***

Around 11, I come upstairs for sustenance and find myself loitering outside the door. Eliot was right. I haven’t been in the parlor since it became Oliver’s sick room.

That’s not a coincidence. I don’t want to see him languishing in bed, drooling from his open mouth. Don’t want to smell the evidence of his incontinence. Don’t want to force a smile when I want to vomit.

But if he does need anything, I don’t want him to suffer. Standing outside the door, I send Oliver a text.

\- Hey. How’s it going?

I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me before. Texting in the house is the new intercom.  
Oliver doesn’t answer, though. Can he even lift his hands? Control his fingers? He could be catatonic in there. How do I know? All I know is if Eliot gets home and his father’s dead, I’m going to catch hell for it.

I swear under my breath before knocking. No reply. Probably asleep. I should leave him alone.

I return to the kitchen, pour some chips in a bowl and a Coke in a glass. Then, I leave it on the counter and knock again.  
Nothing.

Eliot said, “peek in.” That’s it. Small task. I am not an asshole. He’s the asshole.

I hold my breath and enter.

I’d forgotten what a beautiful, spacious room my parlor was. The wall-to-ceiling windows are obscured behind blackout curtains and the only light is from an antique floor lamp in the corner. The sofa has been replaced by the hospital bed, but Oliver’s not in it.

He’s seated in the recliner beneath the lamp with his glasses on, reading. The blanket over his legs makes me wonder whether he can stand? Walk? Does Eliot have to wipe his ass?

Oliver looks up and one brow raises. He’s put on a few pounds, looks more like himself and less like an extra from the Walking Dead.

“Mr. Heisenberg,” I say.

He lowers his book and although Oliver will never resemble my father, at this moment, I feel like my six-year-old self, unsure whether it’s a good time to enter his study.

“Just wanted to be sure everything is going well with your stay,” I say. “That our staff is taking good care of you.”

Oliver smiles at my Gail impression. By smile, I mean that the left half of his mouth curls up. The other half remains stubbornly static and lifeless.

“How are you?” I ask, still safely by the door. “Do you need anything?”

Oliver shakes his head. At least he can move. Can he speak?

“You sure?” I point at his half-empty sippy cup.

What’s in there? Probably not Scotch. I didn’t know we had any of those left from when Gavin was small. Or did Eliot go out and buy them especially for Oliver’s unreliable hands? This is precisely the kind of disgrace I don’t want to witness: an adult man drinking from a sippy cup.

Sixty is not old. I’ll be sixty in seven years. If I get like this, I hope they’ll take me out back and —

“Sit down, Elio.”

The slur is slight, but his tone is direct. I obey.

For a moment, Oliver says nothing more. Is company all he wants? No conversation required? This isn’t so bad. In ten minutes, I’ll ‘remember’ a call I have to make.

Before I can escape, Oliver says, “Sounds like Gavin has a mighty crush going.”

“What?”

“Can you understand me?”

His words are thick and soupy, as if his tongue is swollen, but he’s perfectly intelligible.

“No. I understand,” I say. “This is just the first I’m hearing about a crush.”

Oliver levels a look on me. His right eye wanders, as if independently checking the doorknob. His lopsided grin looks almost intentional with a dash of mischief in his left eye.

“A little girl named Sasha.”

His amusement melts to concern.

“You and Gavin have a tough time, don’t you?” he asks. “It was the same with me and Ovid. He was strong-willed and too smart for anybody’s good. And he didn’t have Gav’s trauma to contend with. You need to be patient and give him space. Too hard, you push them away.”

This is coming from the man who still doesn’t make prolonged eye contact with his oldest son. I don’t often think about that and I don’t blame Oliver for his reaction - not exactly. I’ve always thought I should thank him for running Eliot into my bed. That’d be a pleasant conversation.

“Carlos, on the other hand,” Oliver continues. “So easy. Good grades. Soft-spoken. Never any trouble. Listen, I learned this too late with Ovid, but you’ve got time with Gavin. It was more important to have him in my life than to always be right.”

It’s good advice.

“And Eliot?”

His name slipped out of my mouth like a hiccup.

Oliver looks away. “Some things are unsalvagable. You have to learn to accept that, too.”

Their relationship - past and present - is one of a thousand things I’d never expected to discuss with Oliver. I know Eliot’s story, and that he’s made his peace. This whole caregiver situation illustrates how little resentment he harbors against his father.

Then again, since Eliot moved in with me, those two have seemed more like cordial acquaintances at family gatherings. A firm handshake. How’s it going, Oliver? Well, and you?

Oliver is still reflecting. I don’t know why I said Eliot’s name, or what I want to hear.  
That he regrets telling his son about me? He can’t possibly know I know that. But if he mentions it, I’ll ask why he put that burden on a twelve-year-old? What did he expect to happen? Certainly not this.

There is no universe in which I would tell Gavin that I used to have sex with his Zayde.

“I… You must wonder why it’s so …. strained between us,” he finally says.

I don’t reply.

“There aren’t enough words for the apology I owe him. A father shouldn’t have a favorite. And he shouldn’t try to be friends with his children. I wanted to be a good dad, but I guess I’d get mixed reviews.”

I can relate to that, and I’m happy to do so in Oliver’s silent company.

What does Gavin know about me at all? I used to tell him stories from my father, especially when we’d visit the villa. I even tried to teach him Italian and failed miserably. We both lack patience. He gets disappointed in himself at every little correction. That turns him into a weepy, little grump. Then, we start fighting. Fifty-three year old me, losing an argument to a nine-year-old. In English

“Why are you sitting way the hell over there, Elio?”

I rub my hands over my pants legs. I have chosen a chair as far as the furnishing will allow.

Oliver nods. “Eliot mentioned that illness frightens you.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say.

“You know, I think about death every day. I can understand you not wanting—”

“I just, I think… more than anything, I can’t stand seeing… you know. Seeing you like this, Oliver.”

He flashes another crooked smile. “Well, if it’s any comfort, I don’t like it much either.”

Now, the only decent thing is to cross the room and sit in the matching recliner with our knees two feet apart. Thankfully, the only odor is lavender, further evidence of Eliot’s care. In the villa, with my mother, he always had a diffuser puffing essential oil potions he learned from library books or YouTube. When he used those treatments for Gavin’s colds, I joked and called him a witch, but not with my mother across the hall hacking up her soul.

In Oliver’s room, a quiet tingle spreads over my skin. This is the first time he and I have been alone together in decades. Usually, his kids, or Carlos’ kids, or Gavin, or some other family chaperone is present.

We’re alone in the house. I could ask him anything.

“What are you reading?”

Oliver leans the book up to show me the title: Da Vinci Code. My laugh is more like a bray.

“My nurse said to give my brain a break.”

I groan. “He loves that awful book. Are you sure he’s even your son?”

At that, we’re both laughing. The comedy ends with Oliver’s phlegmy cough, but nothing 911 worthy.

“It’s actually not as bad as I expected,” he says.

“It’s pretty bad,” I argue - although I finished the book and sat through the worst Tom Hanks movie ever made.

Two words: Paul Bettany.

“Yeah, well. Don’t tell my brain.”

“You sure you don’t want a drink or something, Oliver?” I start to stand.

Sitting here, laughing with him, is surreal. And it’s making me warm and antsy. If I can do something useful —

“Did I ever tell you about my father?

“Not really.” I sit. “No.”

“Hm…”

Oliver remains silent for what feels like an hour. He must have changed his mind. Oliver knows my father, but I could talk about the professor and see whether that loosens his tongue.

“I’ll have that drink, after all, Elio.”

“No problem. What’s your poison?”

“Mostly, he gives me cranberry juice, so, anything other than that.”

I bring him OJ on the rocks, praying I don’t have to hold the cup while he drinks. He manages fine with his left hand and clumsily wipes the few drops that slide from the right side of his mouth down his chin. No worse than after a dentist’s numbing.

“Thirsty, huh?”

“It’s taken me this long to figure out,” Oliver says. “That my father was a soldier who never got his war. See, he shot his foot in a hunting accident a few months before this regiment went into Seoul. Honorably discharged. Had to do all his fighting at home.”

Oliver carefully sets his sippy cup on the small table beside his chair.

“Whenever she could, my mother would hurl herself in front of him like he was a grenade. There should be a Purple Heart for Lorena Tchtosky,” Oliver says. “She would have loved you. Was a beautiful singer. That must be where Eliot gets it. You know I can’t carry a tune in my pocket.”

His eyes gently close. He pulls the lever to elevates his feet. Oliver looks so much like that photo of his father, I wonder if his mother was an actual beauty or a homely fertility goddess type, like Gail.

Oliver isn’t with me anymore. He’s in the kitchen of a three-bedroom apartment I Peoria, describing back through time in such vivid detail I can see the spotless linoleum countertops and the vinyl ‘cloth’ on the round dinner table.

“We’d come home from the synagogue and he’d twist my balls if he thought I’d looked at some boy wrong. To the point I thought I’d pass out.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I clasp my hands in my lap and shut up.

“When I was fifteen,” Oliver says. “I was pretty all elbows. One night, I knocked the mashed potatoes clean off the table. Bowl landed upside down. My father going to mash me. And my Ma hopped between us. He slammed her head on the corner of a chair. Then on the table. Then he kicked her where she fell.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out but air. There have been times when I wanted to turn Gavin over my knee. My father hardly ever raised his voice, let alone his hand. I’ve seen abuse in movies.

“And I stood there watching,” Oliver huffs a laugh like acid. “I guess, I thought, at the time, there was no point in both of us getting beaten.”

I nod like I have any idea what he’s talking about.

"My oldest brother had died in Vietnam. My sisters had scattered in the wind and never looked back. My other brother had a family in St. Louis, but no room for me. I was the youngest, the last one at home, so it was either fucking-well behave, or run away. To what? So, I lived for two more years with the man who killed my mother. He said she had a seizure and fell. No one questioned it.”

“It would have been better to let him kill me than to just stand there."

How am I supposed to respond? The best i can manage is wringing my useless hands.

“I never talked about it until I met Gail. She ... She could listen, you know?”

I don’t argue. Oliver breathes deeply, chin to his chest. I can almost catch the shimmer of ghosts hovering around his chair.

“I never wanted to hurt her in any way, Elio. You understand that?”

“Of course.”

I also know that I would have listened. I could have been his rock. I would have held my tongue, and my judgments, and let him pour out more than his body to me. Oliver must have thought I was too young and too sheltered to process that kind of story back then. He was probably right. I don't even know what to say about it now.

His yawn stretches his mouth into a hideous, misshapen cavern. I look away. He accepts my offer to help him to bed. It’s intimate and strange, steering his massive, ungainly and bony body. Covering him with the sheet. It’s stranger still when he squeezes my hand, wishes me good night, and I leave the room.

***

I'm back in the studio when Eliot texts: You mind if I come don?

All I’m doing is looping the conversation with Oliver in my mind.

\- Sure

Eliot treads down lightly and stands beside where I sit in my sound engineer’s chair.

“Thank you,” he says.

“No problem. How’d you—“

“I don’t think he could have gotten to bed by himself.”

I nod. Eliot asks roosting on the edge of my console, which he knows I hate. I don’t complain.

“Did he talk at all?”

“A little,” I say.

“Because I can’t get a word out of him. 'Yes and no.' That’s it. His body is springing back but, I’m not sure if everything’s really firing up there.”

“You shouldn’t worry so much.” I’m not surprised that Oliver is reserved with Eliot. It's always been that way, and now he's in Eliot's care, it can't be easy. “You’re always telling me to relax, right?”

“Yeah.”

He stands behind me, massaging my shoulders. I nearly recoil from the strength of his large hands, and their warmth seeping through the t-shirt into my skin. A blend of cigarette smoke, alcohol and sweat rolls off him. Must have been a good night. When will he go to bed?

“You must be tired?”

This repulsion isn’t about the boys in the band. When my mind is clear, I don’t care that Eliot plays with hot, young guys. He’s a hot, young guy. They’re a pleasure to watch.

I've always had times when I'd rather be alone. It was far worse and more frequent with everyone else I ever dated. Except for Oliver, and maybe that was because we weren't together long enough.

“How was the show?” I ask.

“Good.”

Eliot kisses my cheek, slides a hand down my shirt and whispers against my face, “You want to come upstairs soon?”

I pat his arm. “I’m going to finish working on this.”

“I can stay up.”

“Well, it’s already 2, so…”

He stands upright, shifts his weight as if to go upstairs. Then, he takes my hand. “Elio, this can wait.”

I slip away. “Not tonight, okay?”

“We don’t have to… Let’s just go to bed together.”

“I’m busy, Eliot. I’ll be up in a little.”

He’s hurt and that wasn’t my intention. I kiss his knuckles. He pecks my lips and finally, goes away.

***

Whenever Eliot is otherwise occupied, I visit. We trade notes on everything: high school horrors, our parents, disappointments, plans. Oliver’s thinking of going back to school. Not to audit, for yet a third PhD. I reveal that I never got a degree. He tries to convince me I should, though I can’t see the point now.

Oliver shares more, in twenty-minute bursts, than in the summer we were lovers and thirty-three years of friendship combined. Sometimes, we sit on the balcony in complete silence.

Eliot makes a mini-ceremony of his graduation from the chair to a walker. Oliver maneuvers with slothlike grace and speed and yet, he’s more Oliver than ever.

“I’d tell you anything you want to know,” he vows one evening over a secret shot-glass of scotch.

Just enough to wet his gums. I even have a shot, as if we’re celebrating. I’m way too chicken shit to go deep past-diving. I already know we couldn’t have been together. He had his family to take care of. I understand that now.

“You once asked what would have happened if you came back to Italy while I was there.”

Oliver hands me the glass. He has a habit of impaling me with his one good eye. I don’t know whether it’s a result of his medical condition, but it takes great effort not to squirm.

“I suppose, we’d still be lovers, if you could stomach me like this.”

“I don’t—”

“And I’d still resent you as the incubus who cost me my family and proved how weak I was.”

I recoil as if from a blow. “That’s how you thought of me?”

“Not exclusively, Elio,” he says. “I felt so many things at once my head was constantly spinning. I was glad to get away from you.”

“Then why’d you come back?”

“I believe I told you, Gail accused me of dreaming of someone else. Refused to tolerate it. And she was right. I never stopped … wondering. But that time, with your parents, it cleared it my head. To a large extent.”

It requires no effort to careen into the thick recesses of memory - my skull swimming with warm possibility and the hot agony of restraint.

“That day,” I say, already atoning for the sin of this confession, “When I called for your permission to… be with Eliot.” A rush of heat warns that this admission can only unleash Hell. “I wanted you to say no.”

Oliver doesn’t reply, so I forge on.

“I wanted you to say that I shouldn’t be with your son, or anyone else. That you wanted me to wait until your kids were grown, or until you’d worked something out with Gail... Can you believe that?”

I chuckle, not because it’s funny, but because I’m a trembling wreck. Levity would help if either of us could believe this is a joke.

“I sensed that.”

“And you—”

“Eliot made it possible for us to stay friends.” Oliver nods at his own owlish wisdom. “He’s not easy, but he loves deeply. You deserved that. You both did.”

I breathe in so deeply my lungs ache.

“Maybe it’s not my place to say, but I’ve had the feeling, lately, that you two … You know that counseling, made all the difference for me and Gail.”

I squeeze out a smile and nod, but the last thing I can listen to is relationship advice from Oliver. Eliot wanted to do couples’ therapy. Noone who hears our story can remain unbiased enough to help.

“We’re fine,” I say, stand and wish Oliver good night.

We skip the hand squeezing ritual. I don’t help him to bed. Eliot will take care of that later.

On the long march to my room, sweet electricity hums in my marrow like the first time Oliver kissed me. Lying in the dry grass, under a relentless sun, near my hometown.

This is beyond friendship.  
These talks have reached their boiling point. This is as close as I can come with my integrity intact. It’d be better, from here out, to keep away, say no more than, “Hello.”

Then again, if Eliot does strike up something with Mark, how could he complain if I fall for Oliver again? Or if I admit that my feelings were never resolved?  
How do you say that to your husband?  
You don’t. Not when you’re already having trouble. And what would be the point with Oliver’s mangled body? Then again, his physical vulnerability has opened this opportunity to see the man beyond the god I worshipped as a kid.

As much as I love Eliot, he’s flighty and unreliable. All he cares about is that mid-level band. In our seventeen years together, and despite our history, I’ve never even looked at anyone else. Don’t I deserve this?

Deserve what? Oliver and I are not kids sneaking kisses in an alley. Whatever is between us is nostalgia. Being with him reminds me of when I was young and new, and neither of us is that anymore.

***

I’ve spent so many nights in the studio over the years, and especially lately. It’s no wonder Eliot looks surprised to find me in bed. He strips to his boxers, drops his clothes in a heap on his side.

There was a time he would stand there and make me drunk on the sight of his stunning body. I’d just gaze, in awe, until he grew impatient and leapt on me. Tonight, he rolls under the satin sheet, curls up beside me, watching me watch SNL videos on my phone.

I’m not bothering him. When this man wants to sleep, he switches off his light, turns his back and passes out like a baby on Lorazepam. Tonight, he just stares.

This expression means he wants me to top tonight. Wants it bad. Theoretically, I could give in - imagining Oliver the whole time. Not that I’ve never done so, but right now it would feel too close to cheating. It’s too easy to fantasize about Oliver with Eliot, especially in the dark. His body feels almost the same as I remember from that summer. Broader and more defined, but strangely similar. Or not so strange.  
Strange is me having loved the father, the son and now…

It doesn’t happen every time, but all it takes is for Eliot to move in some way or make a certain sound and ... It’s a coin toss whether it gets me searing hot, or shuts me down completely. There’s no explaining how the brain works. If he pushes tonight, I’ll claim a backache.

Eliot plays with the ever-increasing abundance of fur on my forearm. There’s a small forest on my back now, too. And my shoulders and in my ears, if I don’t keep on top of it. He’s still practically bare, without shaving or waxing. Genetics.

We might as well get this out of the way. I’m not going to fuck him tonight. I put down my phone and ask, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He keeps staring. Keeps stroking. Sucking his lower lip.  
This isn’t sexual energy. It’s sheepish, almost regressive behavior that is not without precedent. He gets like this when he’s going to make me angry.

I take a deep breath and my lips purse themselves. When his eyes are wide-sky-grey and penitent like this, he looks a quarter of his age and half his size. My giant baby.

“What is it, Eliot?”

I already know. Either he went down on Mark, or he let the guy screw him. I’ve seen it coming for years.

“Promise you won’t get mad.”

“I make no such promise.” I’m already agitated. “Eliot. Tell me. Now.”

“I think I just jerked off my dad.”


	20. Chapter 20

That’s

Not

What I expected. What does that even mean?

“You think?”

“In the bathtub. ” Eliot sucks in a loud breath and releases the minty-hot air on my face. “Are you mad?”

Am I mad?

There have been times over the years when I’ve felt I was in a committed relationship with Dennis the Menace. Or both Calvin and Hobbes. My husband is fucking adorable, and he wrecks everything. He’s devastated me more than once, but he’ll never top this.

Acid rises in my throat as I sit upright and slide my feet into my slippers. Deep breaths. Intentional movements. Slow, like moving under water.

With my back to him, I ask with false calm, “Why would you do that?”

The spot where Eliot touches my arm is the epicenter of the ice that floods my system.  
If I stay here, I’ll kill him.

Part of me remains on the bed when I stand - a sluggish wisp of astral remnant trails behind me. I glide toward the door, more ghost than flesh.

“Elio, don’t—”

Weightless, I float from the room.

Oliver makes how many men? Elio probably doesn’t even keep count.

Along the hall. Down the steps.

When I find myself in times of trouble, I remember how that train steamed away and Oliver never even glanced back. No pain I’ve ever felt has been worse than that, until now. Innards tacked to the end car as it smoked away, dragging out my entrails and leaving them steaming on the tracks.

These slippers are soundless. Isotoner. OJ’s brand.

I drift through the unlit foyer. Into the kitchen. Everything pitch-dark. I navigate by memory and instinct, this house I’ve haunted for thirty years. Quiet as a tomb. Everyone could die here tonight. Isn’t this the stuff of murder-suicides? Some normal guy stretched beyond his breaking point.

The overpowering sweet of lavender emanates from the parlor/sickroom.

I married far worse than sickness. Depravity is thick on me like tar gumming between feathers.

A terminal ache in my chest.  
Holy fuck.  
Why is this happening?

Why did I get married? I knew better.  
Why are they doing this to me?

I pass the carving block. The Japanese knife kit from Williams-Sonoma. Eliot’s last birthday present.

Dead silence from the parlor. Is Oliver sleeping or basking in the afterglow of my husband (his son’s) huge, masterful hands. Eliot’s musician and climber’s fingers, long and calloused, unlike Oliver’s impossibly soft skin.

I tear my keys from the hook by the back door, saliva souring, on the verge of vomit when I exit under the glaring scrutiny of the motion sensor.  
I slip over the yard through the lawn sprinklers and slide, dripping, into my Tesla.  
The tires screech around the horseshoe. Down the driveway.  
Just like Oliver, I don’t look back.

***

So many mistakes last night:

1\. Forgetting my cell phone.  
2\. Emptying the wet bar in my room at the Beverly Wilshire, hammering the living shit out of my twelve-years-dry brain. I never got drunk enough to forget Eliot’s confession, but I did spend a couple of hours on my back laughing so hysterically I wet my shorts and the carpet.

The third mistake was calling Gavin’s phone in that same mushed state of mind. In my defense, the brilliant plan was to give him my number at the hotel and explain why I ran away like Cinderella at midnight.

I have no idea what I actually said. The following morning, today, I awaken to thunder - pounding on the door, despite the request not to be disturbed.

“Elio?”

No. I refuse. I checked in here to avoid that voice, that face. I hurl the remote control at the door where it shatters. After a bit more obnoxious thudding, Eliot leaves.

Awake against my will, I order a breakfast of all the shit he’s made contraband at home: bacon, real eggs, whole cream for my coffee.

An hour later, Eliot returns and this time - whether by bribing a maid or pleasuring a manager, the doorknob clicks and he waltzes in where he’s unwelcome.

“No.” I tumble from the bed to my knees, shouting as I climb to my feet, “Get out!”

“I just…” He places a black gym bag on the floor at the foot of my bed. Then, he raises his hands, as if I’m holding a weapon. “I brought your phone, your Statin, a couple of changes of clothes.”

I’m still wearing the pajamas I’d left in. Am I supposed to thank him? I didn’t ask for this.

Eliot crosses the room, clicking off the television on his way to the window. The rings scrape against the rod as he draws the curtain, calling in fearsome sunlight that pierces to the spaces between my still-sluggish synapses.

“I understand you need some time,” he says. “But you can’t drunk call Gavin in the middle of the night. You scared him, Elio. He asked if something was wrong with your brain, like Zayde.”

“No, that’s you.”

“Can we talk like adults?”

Adults don’t do what he did. Neither do normal children. I was warned. I should have known.

“How do I even know Gavin is safe with you?”

Eliot’s eyes narrow as he straightens to his full height. For the first time, I think my husband might strike me. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Fuck you, Elio.”

***

Keith Hartman, my attorney, specializes in entertainment law, but he gives me a number.  
By the time I get around to calling, his referrel, Claudia Barring, jabbers in my ear like we’re old friends.

Eliot introduced to the inanity of Star Trek, The Next Generation. That show plays on-screen: Captain Picard mutely debating with Lieutenant Trisha Yar. This conversation with the lawyer would make a surreal episode of MST 3000.

“Keith told me a bit about your situation,” this lawyer says. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to get full custody, the house, alimony-free.”

“What situation?”

“Well, he mentioned that your husband is half your age.”

Inaccurate.

“How he’s been living off you for—”

“That’s not—”

“There was infidelity, right?”

How would Keith know that unless Eliot fucked him, too?

“Listen, Mr. Perlman, I’ll be blunt. I see these cases all the time, where a man like yourself marries some hot young thing. Later, they think better of it—”

“That isn’t—”

“You don’t have a prenup, am I right?”

“Correct.”

“Keith mentioned you’ve been married two years. We could have tried for an annulment if it weren’t for the child. Devin?”

“Gavin.”

I smell like shit. I’ve been here five days and haven’t turned on the shower once.

“Right,” the lawyer says. “But your husband is not a legal guardian, right?”

“He’s Gavin’s father.”

“Well, right, but legally—”

“Yes. Legally. Eliot adopted him after we got married.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “It would have been so much easier. Well, has there been any drug use? Can we build a case that he’s an unfit parent?”

I was already thrumming. Pulse beating out the same accelerated tempo at which my life is unraveling.  
My thumb hits the red button. I don’t pick up when Barring calls back. She leaves a message I won’t listen to today. Maybe tomorrow.

I do, however, call down to the hotel bar for more booze.

***

The Beverly Wilshire offers a fine complimentary shaving kit, but why shave when I don’t go outside?

I eat in bed and watch television. If I die in this bed, eventually, the cleaning staff will ignore the Do Not Disturb sign to investigate the odor. I like to think they won’t be able to distinguish between the BO and the funk of decomposition.

Room service. Game shows, talk shows, reality shows, news shows, political pundits shoutoffs, cartoons, soap operas, after-school specials. I have a lot of shit to catch up on.

What I don’t do is think about Eliot or Oliver or Oliver and Elliott.

I don’t think about how it happened.

Did Eliot get him hard, or was Oliver already erect from all the soap and the rubbing? Did Oliver ask him to stop? It’s not like he’s some complete invalid. But Eliot could have easily overpowered him.  
I can’t see that. My husband is insane, but he’s not aggressive.

Was a quick and dirty, or slow and deliberate?  
Did Oliver come?  
Did Eliot eat it?  
My dirty boy loves to eat it.

Jesus, I’m as sick as they are.  
Them.  
Oliver must have allowed it. If that happened while I in the house, what are they doing now?

Jesus Christ.

I could hire a PI. Videos and pics would serve me well in court. Just talking to that lawyer made me feel filthy, but she’d arrange something scummy like that.

If my father were alive, the professor would tell me that Eliot is probably hurting right now. That I should hear him out. That doesn’t mean I have to stay in the marriage, but I should listen to his psychosis before I pull the plug.

The image of Eliot’s hand around Oliver’s cock makes it impossible to call.

Of all the thoughts that batter the inside of my skull, under no circumstances do I acknowledge that I’ve had fantasies about this.  
That does not matter.  
Fantasy is not reality.

When I was 13, I used to fantasize that Lynda Carter was in B. for a fashion show, or something. Yeah, I know. Just go with it.  
Somehow, she’d find herself stumbling blindly to our door, mugged, beaten and amnesiac. No idea who she was. The hair had grown back on her legs and under her chin, like my mother used to get, but she was still Lynda Carter knocking on our door.

Mafalda would let her in and teach her to make marmalade. Then, she’d come to my room and rub her homemade jam all over my body.  
Lynda Carter. God, not Mafalda.

This was high-quality spank material at the time. But the fact is, if Lynda Carter had ever shown up at the villa door, I would’ve slammed it in her face, run to my room and cowered under my bed like a dog in a thunderstorm.

This is like that, only worse.

***

Gavin won’t receive my calls. He’d take Eliot’s side if he were an axe-murderer. And I don’t want to explain this to him. How could I? As much as I hate my husband, I don’t want to turn our son against him. I just want Eliot to die.

After nine days in purgatory, I’m ready to talk with the lawyer. I make an appointment with her office.  
It doesn’t matter how it looks to live with someone fifteen years and divorce after two. I wasn’t made for marriage. Between the flaws of the institution, the combined weight of our collective baggage and this last, unforgivable crime…  
(Not an indiscretion, mind you. A literal crime.)  
This is the end.

***

“Elio, call me. Please.”

I only listen to Eliot’s messages to be sure everything is fine with Gavin. Then I erase them.  
On day 16, he leaves a message to call Gavin’s school, stating only that it’s urgent.

***

“Chadwick School. Mrs. Drew, how may I help you?”

“Hi, this is, uh… Elio Perlman. Gavin Perlman- Heisen—”

“Oh, yes. Good afternoon, Mr. Perlman. I’ll put you through to Dr. Andross.”

It takes an act of extreme self-control not to hang up. My heart is already in the back of my throat ready for the long dive.

Three minutes on hold is a long time to pore over the list of potential problems. At best, Gavin’s grades are slipping. That’s common for kids going through a divorce. He doesn’t know about that yet, but he’s far from stupid. I haven’t been home in two weeks. The kid knows something’s going on.

Worst case scenario, he’s been fighting. Worse worst case, he actually hurt someone.

When he first came to us, he’d flip out throw a rage-tantrum that burned too hot to soothe. He’d have to flail and fume until he wore himself out. Eliot would try to hold him through it and wound up scratched and bruised.

Gavin has had any kind of outburst in years, but this is a traumatic situation that I have not handled well.  
What am I doing to my son?

I should have sucked it up, gone back to the house and talked to him. Explained that what’s happening with his dad and me has nothing to do with —

“Hello, Mr. Perlman, sorry to keep you waiting.”

I clear my throat and brace for impact.

“Your husband asked me to call and speak with you directly.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I cover my mouth and rest my elbows on my knees.

“In case you’re not aware, Gavin won the school-wide essay writing contest.”

I blink. On-screen, Bugs Bunny bludgeons Foghorn Leghorn with a frying pan. If you didn’t grow up with these images, they barely make sense.

“Oh,” I say letting cold comfort wash over me. “That’s… terrific.”

“It is. He did an exceptional job. We’re all very proud. I just wanted to be sure that your family will be present for the award ceremony.”

“Oh.” I sniff. “Of course.”

My nose stings, eyes well to the brim. I run my hands through what’s left of my hair and scribble the information.

***

My request for separate seating was obviously ignored or overlooked by the school. I find the cafeteria set up with linen cloths on round tables and my name plaque directly adjacent to Elio’s. Oliver is seated on his left side.

When my renewed request to be relocated was denied, I opt not to make a scene or leave, for Gavin’s sake. Instead, I’m the picture of civility: unbuttoning my jacket and nodding curtly before I take my seat without even scooting it aside for extra distance.

Eliot pinches out a smile. “How’ve you been?”

There’s more dignity in Oliver’s refusal to meet my eyes.

I keep my gaze on the podium. Hands on the table. Eliot starts to touch me and I fold my arms. He. turns away leaking a shuddering breath.

“I’m here for Gavin,” I say.

He nods.

His hand makes me want to throw up.  
Correction.  
His hand makes me think things I don’t want to think.

Thankfully, the ceremony begins. And of course, it’s not only in Gavin’s honor.  
There’s a little girl reciting her mediocre original poetry. These are the gifted kids, so there’s some quality control. Another student tells a mildly entertaining original story. The adolescent songwriter isn’t half bad and I almost remark to Eliot.

He tries to rest his hand on my thigh and I shove him away.

Eliot leans over and whispers, “Please, don’t be like this.”

How am I being?  
How would he feel about it if I had jerked off my father? The thought makes me nauseous. Eliot would probably love it. How did I live for twenty years with this maniac?

“Our next and final presenter is fourth-grader, Gavin Perlman-Heisenberg.”

Oliver and I clap like the rest of the sane people. Eliot stands and hoots between his hands like we’re at a soccer game. He doesn’t even stop when everyone else stares.

Once Gavin reaches the podium, he rolls his eyes. “Alright, Dad. Sit down.”

The crowd murmurs a laugh. Eliot laughs, too, and hoots again. He finally sits when I tug on his pants leg.

Still, he adds a shout: “I love you, Gav.”

Gavin sighs into the microphone. “Some of you guys already know, my dad’s a spazz.  
I almost don’t even have to read this thing.”

The whole crowd is chuckling. I always predicted a STEM career for my kid, but he could do comedy on the side and wind up like Ken Jeong.

“Okay,” Gavin says, surveying his papers. “Let’s do this.”

I haven’t seen this essay. Has Eliot seen this essay?  
I want to ask, but I don’t.

Gavin begins, “My name is Devondre Nelson.”

I’m frozen by the chilling premonition that he’s going to talk about his life before us. It’s a hell of a story, and not one I want or expect him to forget. But I don’t want these people to look at him differently. They know he’s our kid, but how far does liberal understanding go?

“And this is going to sound lame,” he continues. “But my fathers are my heroes.

The beginning of my story is one you’ve all heard before, so I’ll skip the familiar part. It doesn’t get good until my dad found me. When he did, he and my papa were just a couple of white guys doing a good deed. At least that’s what I thought.

I was basically a kid version of the Fresh Prince. I went from living in the projects sleeping on a different floor each night waking up to gunshots to... Hanging out with all of you guys. And while that’s all pretty great, it’s not the point. The theme of this essay is true heroes and I want to talk about heroic love.

At first, I was a foster kid. When my papa adopted me, I asked him to change my name. He sat me down and explained that I could do it legally when I turn 18, if I still want to. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. For now, I go by Gavin. And you all call me by their last names.

My dad has this energetic, in your face, fun love that lifts you up. He never gets yelling mad and always makes me feel like I’ve got Obama, Mandela and Kevin Hart potential.

My papa has got a grounding love. He is the person most likely to ground me.”

Everybody chuckles.

“But he also makes me know I’m not some charity project. He doesn’t talk down to me or let me get away with crap.

Also, when he finds out I wrote the word ‘crap’ in my essay he’ll be all over my case. My papa’s love teaches me how to stand up for myself and what love looks like when things are not easy. Like Malcolm X and Muhammed Ali.”

A few people let out a quiet hum that reverberates through me. Then, Gavin starts to sing.

Close your eyes  
Have no fear  
The monster's gone  
He's on the run and your daddy's here  
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy

When he first came to us, I used to sing that song to him every single night. Sometimes, Eliot would sit on the side of his bed and add harmony. Gavin is no great vocal talent. His voice cracks in the middle of the second line, but when Eliot grabs my hand this time, I don’t pull away.

There was our boy being exquisite. Giving us credit for what nature gave him and we simply nourished. Eliot is crying and not even wiping at the tears. If I look at him, I might start up too.

“My dad taught me to read. Gave me my first noogie,” Gavin says. “Sometimes, my papa sings. Sometimes, he yells. Both for the same reason. My dad is easy to love and my papa and are hard on each other. Love is about how it feels when it's easy, but also about what you do when it's tough."

Eliot squeezes my hand.

“My name is Gavin Perlman- Heisenberg, and my fathers are my heroes because they never give up. Thank you.”

The applause is still booming when Gavin disappears behind the curtains. Then the audience stands, turns and applauds us until Doctor Andross takes the podium and thanks me and Eliot for raising such a gifted writer, thinker and orator.

Eliot is crushing the hell out of my fingers now. Oliver half-smiles at us, right hand palm-up on the table where he can clap it with his left.  
Whatever becomes and Eliot and me, we’ve done something very right.

When all the children are released to their parents, a dozen adults stop Gavin, patting his back on his way to our table. He saunters over, too cool for school, and launches himself into Eliot’s chest. They’ve been inseparable from the first and it’s still a miracle, like old friends remembering each other.

Gavin’s shake of Oliver’s left hand becomes a fist bump that morphs into a series of finger wiggles and strange gestures I’ve never seen. They grin and end it by knocking their elbows together.

Then, Gavin turns to me. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

That’s the greeting I expected.

Then, he says, “I thought you were pissed at me.”

“What?”

Eliot pats Gavin’s shoulder, his other hand on my elbow. “I told him it wasn’t that.”

“Why would I be pissed at you, Gavin?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs like his dad. “Because you’re always pissed at me.”

A wave of pity rolls over Oliver’s face, but I can’t be concerned with him right now. When I kneel, I’m slightly below eye level with Gavin, but it’s better than towering over him.

“I’m sorry it feels that way, buddy.” I grip both of his shoulders. “I am always going to show up for you. Even when you’re a little … difficult.”

He smiles a little and nods.

“You were wonderful. I’m … crazy proud of you. When did you even write that essay?”

“Couple of weeks ago. Zayde helped.”

“Very little,” Oliver says.

“You said I should consider alternatives to Ant-man.”

“That was me. I’ll take that much credit.”

“Well.” As I stand my right knee protests. “Ant-man is pretty awesome.”

Eliot rolls in his lips, curbing his usual commentary on Paul Rudd’s hotness. His natural enthusiasm for the actor only increased since we met Mr. Rudd at an awards ceremony where he proved himself to be as courteous as he is attractive. Even I couldn’t deny that Eliot’s zeal was well placed. We exchange a private smile at the shared memory.

Gavin hugs me around the waist and asks, “Are you coming home?”

Rather than answer, I look at my watch. It doesn’t matter what time it is. I have nowhere to be, other than my hotel room.

“Me and Dad cooked one of Zayde’s specialities. It’s a surprise which one.”

“Gavin.”

He actually takes my hand. Gavin hasn’t seemed this young and vulnerable in at least a year. The kid acts so all sophisticated and mature sometimes it’s easy to forget how young he really is. Just nine. I was still hiding under the kitchen table cloth reading when I was his age.

I smile, but don’t reply. Gavin’s bright. Kids nowadays know about these things. He can help me pick out an apartment. At some point, maybe Eliot and I will be friends.

And Eliot will be fine. I saw to that myself. When he wanted to quit school, I insisted he finish. I made him work, although he wouldn’t have needed to. So I could be sure he’d be okay in case something happened to me. Or if all our money dried up from one day to the next.  
He’s a trained music teacher. He’ll be fine.  
Still crazy, but fine.

“Papa, please,” Gavin whispers.

I look into his huge, brown eyes and say, “It’s Dad and I cooked. You said, 'me and Dad.'”

***

Eliot is good around the kitchen. Oliver is gifted. But tonight, it’s just latkes and home-mashed applesauce. This is Gavin’s masterpiece, and he eats about ten pounds of it.

We toast the boy of the hour with sparkling cider.

“So, you are going to speak at my funeral, right?” Oliver asks as Eliot collects his dirtied plate.

“I’ll put it in my calendar,” Gavin says.

Eliot absently brushes a lock Oliver’s hair from his forehead, like it’s the most natural gesture in the world. Oliver doesn’t seem to notice.

“So, I meant to ask,” he says. “Which one was Sasha?”

“Zayde!”

“Oh, they know. I couldn’t keep that secret.”

Gavin drops his head in his hand and we all laugh. It’s a good opportunity to ask whether his touching homage means the end of the backtalk.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me grow my hair now.”

This kid.

I say, “We’ll talk about it.”

He groans. “Can we at least get a dog?”

“I told you, no dog until middle school.” Eliot loads the dishwasher. “All right, off to bed, pal.”

“Come on, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Gavin,”

Eliot has never put his foot down so solidly. That’s always been my job. Apparently, my absense has altered a few things. Gavin sighs and starts to make the rounds, hugging everyone good night.

“Night, bud.”

“Night Papa. Zayde, you’re a traitor.”

”I couldn’t resist, buddy.”

As Gavin departs, Oliver tunelessly sings He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. Eliot joins in to give it a melody.  
The moment we hear Gavin’s feet on the steps, I drop my smile and stand. “I’m going to go.”

Eliot sets aside the dishrag and Oliver catches his wrist. A vicious flare races through me and I look away as Eliot helps his father to his feet.

“Good night.” Oliver leans heavily on his cane, but makes his way alone.

It was easy enough to play friendly family in Gavin’s presence, but being back in the house, seeing them all cozy makes me queasy.

“Are you two —”

But I don’t finish the question, because I don’t want to know.

“I wouldn’t do something like that without talking to you.”

“Jesus.” That he’d do it at all.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, shove back the sting of tears and steel myself before I ask, “How did it happen?”

“You want to know?”

I need to hear it like I need air.

“It was desperation, Elio.”

“How many men have you been with?” It’s a hard shift right, but my mind is off the map.

“This isn’t like that.”

“How many?”

“Elio.”

I wait.

How is it possible we’ve never had this conversation? Because it’s so much easier to make assumptions and accusations than to have this damn talk.

“That was years ago, Elio. When are you going to forgive me, or just—”

I spoke with the attorney this morning. The divorce papers will be in his hands within the week. Should have been done long ago.

“I’m not blaming you,” Eliot says, running a hand through his hair and letting the curls fall over his eyes.

He’s still gorgeous, but he’s not eighteen anymore. There are a few streaks of grey sprouting at his temples.

“Blaming me?”

“I’m not,” he says. “I take full responsibility for my…”

He breathes between his palms.

“Fuck, Elio. I was a kid. I just thought… That I could make you love me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know how terrified I’ve always been that you were only with me because of my father.”

“And I’ve told you a thousand times, it isn’t that way.”

“That’s what you say. And then you disappear.”

He slides into a chair at the table. “I remember the first time you went into the studio and didn’t come out for days. I sat up here, just a complete fucking wreck.”

“I was working.”

“I know,” he says. “I knew where you were and what you were doing, but it felt like I’d failed. Like, I—”

“Eliot. I was —”

“I understand that now. At the time... It was hard for me.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was some whining little bitch. I wanted to be more for you. More interesting, smarter, more fun, more desirable. And I never… even now, I… I thought that if you knew other guys wanted me—”

“How could anyone not want you?”

“I wanted you to love me more and … instead, you’ve just hated me for years.”

“I don’t hate you.”

It’s true. I’ve never hated him. I’ve felt inadequate, because I thought I would be Eliot’s everything and he needed more than I could provide.

“I didn’t know what else to do, Elio. I know I was always a poor substitute.”

“Would you stop that?” I start toward him, but can’t quite cover the distance. “You were never—”

“Not a very good one, I know.”

“It was never like that, Eliot.”

The worst part is not knowing whether I’m being honest. I just know I don’t want him to hurt. Not because of me. Not at all.

Did I ever vanish into my work? Sure.

Did I leave him alone for days when he was basically just a kid in a huge house in a new town? I would give him a wad of cash and tell him to keep himself busy.  
And I would disappear in the studio, because sometimes, I regretted having him here. I felt I’d made a mistake. It was easier to be alone.  
Maybe on some level, I guess I was trying to drive him away. See what it would take to make him run. But it only half worked. Eliot never left. He just got to know the town.

I dig the palms of my hands into my eye sockets and focus on breathing.

“I’m sorry…” He says. “Elio, if I could undo all of it…”

“If you’re sorry, why would you do this? With Oliver. Why?”

The chair scrapes across the slate tile as he stands. I shake my head at the first step. I don’t want him to fold me in his arms. To rest his head on my chin, and rock me like I’m the baby. Like all this is okay. Because it’s not okay.

Eliot grips the back of his chair, nostrils flaring. If he cries, I’m leaving. His emotionality always gives him an unfair advantage and I won’t stand here and be battered by tears.

“I needed… I had to get through to him,” he says. “He wouldn’t talk to me, but I knew there was something he needed to say. I didn’t want my father to die without making some kind of peace.”

“And so you—”

“It was the first time his body reacted to me washing him. Maybe he was thinking about you. I don’t know. But I … made a choice.”

“You do realize how insane that is.”

“It worked.”

“How can you say that, Eliot? You molested your father. What the hell kind of—”

“Will you listen to me, please?”

“No. This is—”

“Elio, shut up and listen.”

It’s a wise tactic to rarely raise your voice. When Eliot does, it makes an impression.

“It wasn’t about sex, Elio. I didn’t know why, at the moment. I just knew I had to do something. He shut down, seemed paralyzed while it was happening. And after.  
The next morning, you were gone, and when I went in to help him, he wouldn’t let me touch him. Threatened to call the police. He actually did call Carlos to come to get him. Said that I was holding him against his will.”

“Jesus.”

“Sharon is going to have that baby any day and Carlos basically said for us to work it out. Just like my mom would have done.  
After a couple of days, Oliver came in here, crying.”

“Oliver cried?”

“And apologized. For being a shitty dad. For letting something as stupid as a kiss cost us all those years. For telling me about you in the first place.”

None of this would be happening if he hadn’t. There’s nothing to say. All I can do is nod. Eliot graciously allows a few precious moments of silence before he continues.

“But I’m not sorry about that. I wouldn’t be me without you.”

I can’t argue. Nearly twenty years I’ve spent with this lunatic. I’d just be a grumpy old hermit if it hadn’t been for him.

“Have you ever thought about how we’ve kept each other together?” Eliot asks, venturing closer again.

He senses my tension and stands before me without touching.

“I never would have gone back home after college. Being around Oliver hurt too much,” he says. “With you, I had a superpower to combat his coldness.  
And I kept you two in each others’ lives. You always acted like nothing had ever happened between you, but… I know.”

“You know what?”

My body is thrumming with energy I don’t understand. It seems a dangerous time to speak too much.

“I know that you two belong together,” Eliot says. “That you’re soulmates.”

“You also know, I don’t believe in that.”

“I know.” He chuckles and strokes my cheek. “Doesn’t make it not real.”

This was real. Our family was real. Twenty years of putting up with each other’s shit. Walking away from Eliot feels like dying. That’s real.

He tugs my ear, like we’re playing a game.

“He’s still in love with you.”

Every cell wants to ask whether Oliver said those words, but does it matter? Can I stand here in my kitchen and tell my husband that I’m in love with his dad and that I want nothing more than to go to him.

Is that even true?  
When I was younger and maybe even for a while after Eliot came, I wanted nothing but Oliver, but it’s not that simple anymore. And this connection we have now is nothing like the passion that consumed me that summer. This is a quiet, easy warmth of coming in from the cold to find the fireplace already lit.  
Maybe because we’re old.  
Maybe because Eliot has taught me a different way to love. We’ve cut each other deeply, but at our best, we were the two sides of one coin. I was the head to his soul. He was the heart in my home.

And right now, he’s offering me a future with Oliver all fresh and newly open heart. His body is still mending and may never be the same. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck him, because I do. Just watching the way he barely leans on that cane, recovering some of his former grace, never losing his wry humor. I want him and I won’t lie to Eliot. Better to hold silence.

“You love him, too. I know that. I know you like my own hands, Elio.”

I let him hold my face between his giant, always-hot palms. He kisses me softly, then takes my hand and guides me toward the parlor.

This is it. The moment when he reverses our wedding and gives me away to Oliver.  
Forever or for tonight? As atonement for his past improprieties? As if, then we’ll be even?  
As if I can spend a night with Oliver, after all these years, and then wash my mind clear of it. As if I’m willing to hurt Eliot that way.

He stands behind me at the door, close enough to soak in his body heat.

“It was mostly good with us, right?”

I nod. There were some rough times, but it was mostly good.

Eliot reaches around and turns the doorknob with his other hand at the small of my back, I enter. Oliver is in bed, with his glasses and a book.

The bedside lamp lights only half of his face. Still so dashing with that same piercing gaze. There’s no way I could say no to whatever this is.

I don’t understand the parameters. They’ve agreed to something in my absence. I also lack the presence of mind to ask the rules.

Eliot delivers me to the side of the bed where Oliver smiles up and takes my hand. His thumb grazes my fingers for a few seconds before he asks, “Will you lay down?”

There’s plenty of space.

When I turn to face Eliot, he nods, as if he wants this as much as I do.

I should, but I don’t question it. I step out of my shoes and crawl to him while Oliver rolls on his side to face me, his good hand on my cheek. The magma flooding my system ratchet to a new height when Eliot lays down behind me, his strong arm around my chest, his knees tucked behind mine.

He kisses the back of my head, snuggles closer, already hard. I’m rapidly getting there. I wonder about Oliver, but keep my hands to myself. It's been too long since I've been allowed to touch him that way.

Oliver traces my lips with his thumb, breath warm on my face. The shape of his kiss is new, but the intensity in even such a light brush is achingly familiar from a hundred summers ago. Familiar from Eliot.

Dear God. They kiss the same.

“What is this going to be?” I ask against Oliver’s mouth, drawing in his air as he exhales.

“I don’t know.”

“What are we supposed to tell Gavin?”

Eliot gives the same reply: “I don’t know.”

This may be the most frightening, exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. As if I’m leaving the ground at some sickening speed, or preparing to dive with no parachute. No plan.

Oliver’s eyes are a shimmering Mediterranean-blue when he asks, “You okay?”

I am a speck, nestled between two giants. My head is light and empty and overflowing with the impossibility of this moment. My blood is fickle as mercury. Somehow, I manage to say, “Me okay.”

They both chuckle, shaking the bed, tilting the world.

I haven’t cried since I was that boy staring through flame at an uncertain future. These tears are the same, in a way, only Oliver is here to wipe them away.

Eliot holds me tighter, tilts his hips to press closer. His wide hand spreads over my pounding heart when Oliver asks,

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes. Please.”

***

Oliver is telling a story about the first time Eliot climbed into a tree and couldn’t figure out how to get down. He prefers mountains now, and indoor sky diving, but I have no difficulty imagining a grey-eyed four-year-old on the top branch, crying for help.

“What are you cheeseeaters grinning at?” Gavin asks as he takes his seat at the table across from me.

Eliot leans over Oliver’s shoulder and kisses his temple. “Zayde’s making stuff up.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re all in a good mood, because I missed my bus.”

I groan. Eliot checks his watch and purses his lips. “Not cool, Gav.”

“Also, I’ve been thinking about that dog,” Gavin says. “We really need a dog.”

“Really? Need one,” I ask, doing my best to maintain a serious expression for this negotiation.

“And who’s cleaning up after this alleged dog?” Eliot hands me my coffee and squeezes my shoulder.

I grab and hold his hand until he gives me a sultry little peck.

“Ugh, you guys.”

We exchange a grin. We’ve already been talking about this dog, but it’s best not to let the boy think we cave so easily.  
Eliot has also been talking about finding a surrogate and having another child. I’ve promised to think about it. Best not to let the boy think I’ll cave so easily.

“Listen,” Gavin says. “If we get a dog, I will clean up everything. I swear.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

“I’ll walk it. Train it. Wash it. Feed it.

“Right now, you need to eat it.”

I point at the bowl of oatmeal and fruit Eliot sets on Gavin’s placemat. He rolls his eyes.

“You know,” Oliver chimes in. “I never had a pet when I was a kid.”

“So, that’s what’s wrong with you?” It’s Eliot’s joke.

We all look at him with wide eyes waiting for the fallout. He laughs. I try to keep back the snicker but it’s not working.  
Oliver is the last to laugh, but the loudest.

“Dang, Zayde,” Gavin says. “You just got roasted.”

This time, Eliot snorts when he cackles which makes Gavin spew oatmeal across the table into my coffee. Oliver laughs so hard it shakes the table. I use a spoon to pluck the floater from my mug and wipe it on the napkin.

“Not funny.” 

I might have been able to hold it in if Eliot hadn't covered his mouth with both hands, tittering like a six and a half foot little girl.

After breakfast, he volunteers to drive the boy to school. Oliver and I are still laughing over Gavin's antics when Eliot comes back home. 

~fine~


End file.
